


One More Tomorrow

by shoegazerx



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Drama, Red Cross, Red Cross Nurse Will Graham, WWI Soldier Hannibal Lecter, War Drama, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2018-11-21 21:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11366460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoegazerx/pseuds/shoegazerx
Summary: The jump saved him.Lieutenant Hannibal Lecter finds himself in a hospital-like bed, walled in by sterile curtains. He could still taste the gritty mud from the trenches and it pains him to feel oblivion did not come. The radio is sputtering a hoarse jazz melody and there's an angel with the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen at his side. Is survival an option now?





	1. Chapter 1

Hannibal couldn’t remember much except for the white angel frantically touching his body. He knew that if he were to remember, the pain of loss and the crippling fear will seize him and the hurt will never stop. He was pleased that he was dying, oblivion seemed to be a promise of sleep and silence and comfort.

He felt hands on his sides and pressure bubbling in his head. A melody was drifting in the air, scratchy and hoarse but meant to comfort the moans and groans of the men around him.

He slowly opened his eyes, a jolt of pain running through his skull. He was relieved to see the most beautiful pair of blue eyes he has ever seen and for a moment, he questioned his current state. Was he finally in Heaven? The moans and the music were certainly incongruous.

No.

The white angel.

His right arm hung heavy in a rudimentary bind. His chest felt heavy and his throat dry. The announcer at the radio spoke briefly and the melody was changed to a slow jazz.

He felt his lips chapped and his voice wrong when he said

“Would you like to dance with me?”

The angel froze for a moment and his sight fell back on the bandages he was tending to.

The jump saved him. The mud and the scrap and the empty shells burst and embraced him when he landed in the trench. The enemy must have thought he was dead, face down and sprawled in the dirt. He had managed to scream and alert his squad before the grenade went off. His right leg was gone from the knee down.

Hannibal closed his eyes and remembered.

“Yes.” the angel said and when Hannibal looked at him, the smile made him fall in love on the spot. “I would love to dance with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find it on Tumblr too! > http://shoegazerx.tumblr.com/post/152786138151/one-more-tomorrow-wwisoldierhannibal-x


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because music is such a big part of my creative process, here is the song that I borrowed the title/atmosphere from (tho it’s from 1946): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9s5Tp59qNk

Phantom pain. 

His leg hurt and his skin was itching, the nagging sensations nudging him from his sleep. He tried to shift his position and move his leg and as he curled on his side, his fingers brushed against the rough bind. With his kneecap shattered, his thigh ended in a grotesque stump dressed in the ragged bandages like the remains of a mummy.

It started already, he thought. 

He laid back and placed a hand over his eyes, the darkness beneath his eyelids pulsating with his headache.

‘I have to see. I can’t but I have to see.’

He rubbed his eyes and put all of his strength into his core to rise in a somewhat sitting position. He braced himself on his left arm and tried scooting against the clanking iron headboard.

His right arm was still in the bind that had been hung around his neck and a wooden, stiff splint was tied around his forearm, the bandages biting into his skin. Broken ulna, by the looks of it.

He tried moving his fingers and to his relief, they listened to him albeit twitching, shaky and swollen from the broken wrist, a complementary damage to his already mess of a limb.

His eyes traveled down his abdomen, where another set of bandages were wrapped around neatly, delineating his hips. His right hip hurt but it didn’t look too damaged. His belly was sunken in, a depression carved between the jutting, bony hips. And then.

And then his right leg ended abruptly. Set next to his left leg which looked almost pristine by comparison, with the shrapnel scars etched into his skin since a few months ago when he had to remove them manually, with the help of a makeshift pair of tweezers, the stump felt like an insult of a limb.

He reached out and pressed his palm on the mattress next to the edge of the stump, feeling the cold sheet and the empty space that stretched down to the foot of the bed. His mangled leg, a stark image that forcefully brought into focus the bare bones of reality.

He drew back his arm and covered his mouth. He bit the flesh from his palm as the horror of the image sank in and he felt his heart thundering in his chest. His throat was still dry and hoarse as if he had just swallowed rusty nails.

He cried quietly until he went out of breath.

********************************

The music was softer, clearer when he felt hands on him again.

His heart fluttered with relief and a terrible need of closeness when the angel smiled at him gently.

“We received a better radio.” he said as his hands were working on his bandages “Someone from the city brought it personally, said the pain was enough without the horrible scratchy noises.”

“Where are we?”

“South of Ypres. As far from the trenches as we could but close enough to make the transport of patients and supply as quickly and convenient as possible.”

He slipped the bandages from underneath Hannibal, revealing a jagged cut, most likely from a string of barbwire.

The jump.

“It’s ah… your wounds are healing well.”

Hannibal let him work in silence for a few heartbeats.

“May I know your name?”

“It’s Will.” the angel said, his fingers deftly working with the alcohol and cotton wool. He dabbed on the wound and drew gentle lines over the stitches, sending little flakes of coldness across Hannibal’s spine.

“A Red Cross volunteer. A bad career choice.” Hannibal added and immediately regretted the slip of tongue.

“Is it then?” Will laughed “Extending a helping hand in a time when everyone prefers rather ripping it from the shoulder down?”

“I am not rejecting your cause. It’s simply… it’s dangerous. We cannot have any more casualties.”

Will sighed.

“I can’t let them take my home away from me.”

He finished bandaging the abdomen and put the med kit aside.

“So I am willing to risk everything to help those… those who fight for those who can’t.”

He brought his hands together in silence and Hannibal watched his eyes wander anywhere but on his lower half. Dark curls were hanging in his eyes, complementing the soft flush of his cheeks.

“We don’t know how much longer it’s going to go on but… I’ll help you recover. I-we….we need you.”

Will’s eyes were two pools of the clearest sea under his long eyelashes and the pleading and the passion and the fear and dismay, all reflected in them as he looked at Hannibal, a request which he deeply believed in and clung to and it made Hannibal’s stomach churn with pity and sadness.

Later that night, the terrors tore through him and he woke up screaming, the grenade going off into his very eardrums and when he felt arms around him, he dipped his head in the crook of Will’s neck and gripped him with all his might, and as he shushed him and pressed against him, Hannibal chanted desperately “I tried I tried I tried I tried”.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please excuse the terrible inaccuracy in this chapter as I’ve used Bobby Vinton’s song Mr. Lonely which is from his 1964 album. I thought it fit very well with the atmosphere so to all history buffs out there, I apologize. Everything else should be time-appropriate. Enjoy!

Hands on him again, gentler this time. A strand of dark hair curling on his left hip.

He pressed a hand against his forehead, the ache behind his eyeballs a constant companion each waking moment and blinked hard before his vision cleared.

His chest registered a jolt of irrational panic as the woman at his side smiled briefly and continued disinfecting his wound.

“Where’s Will?” he asked, fearing his voice will betray the panic welling in his ribcage.

The woman scoffed softly and shook her head.

“You will have to bear with me today” she said “I know he’s better than me at this but I promise I know what I’m doing.”

She looked at Hannibal’s expression, the strain of his mouth as he moved his head around, despite not being able to see beyond the curtains that stood as sterile screens between the wounded.

“He’s out for a supply run in town” she relented “He will be fine.”

She watched him settle down, slight changes in the wrinkles around his eyes giving away the subsiding of his anxiety.

“I’m Beverly by the way.” she said and nodded towards the jacket hanging on the side of the headboard “Thank you for your service, Lieutenant.”

Hannibal nodded back for lack of better words and watched her finish bandaging the wound.

She got up and took her med kit with her before taking another look at him.

“You were incredibly brave out there.” she said and stepped away.

The light in the tent was filtered by the rough canvas pulled taut by the wooden frame that formed the skeleton of the structure; taking on the atmosphere inside, a grey shade in which dust particles danced and gathered on his body. The ache in his right arm seemed to have diminished and he could move his fingers slightly better. His hip hurt less as well and the phantom, the phantom was still there.

The harsh image of his mangled leg felt like an anchor point to the reality of the situation. It was as terrifying as the first moment he laid eyes on it, a scrap of a former limb, the remains of a once able body. The devastation he felt at this irreversible change diffused into every vein, his lungs filling with sorrow and defeat. He could not fight anymore. He could not walk anymore.

He sank back into the pillow, an arm slung across his eyes, listening to his ache beating in time with his heart. It drowned out the radio announcing a new number in casualties.

************************************************

Drifting in and out of sleep, time was a concept beyond his immediate consciousness, night and day shifting across his eyelids, the ache the ache the ache, the dirt under his nails, the barb wire that got caught in his jacket and pressed against his skin, the grenade going off and his eardrums exploding.

He woke up with a startle, his chest heaving as he grabbed the edge of his bed, the cold metal against his fingertips soothing to his hot skin. Groans and springs squeaking inside the cheap mattresses accompanied the radio, slightly turned down this time, the jazzy background a faraway noise.

Footsteps approached him and a wholesome sensation of relief passed through his body as Will came to his side with a plastic food tray.

“Good morning. How are you today?” he said and lay the tray on the metal rack that served as a nightstand. He extended his arm and placed his hand on Hannibal’s forehead. “You’re feverish. I should probably call doctor Chilton to do a check up, just to be on the safe side.”

He took back his hand but Hannibal grabbed his wrist with as much force as he could muster, holding him in place. Will’s eyes trailed along the soldier’s pulsating artery on his neck and the slight flaring of his nostrils.

“You’ve had another nightmare.” he said and Hannibal let go of his wrist.

He sat down on the chair next to the bed and scooted closer.

“I can’t imagine being there, up to your neck in mud. But I… I can feel it.” he said rubbing his temples “There’s no comfort for you in my saying this, I know.”

“It’s enough for me.” Hannibal interrupted and met Will’s gaze.

A moment of silence before Will broke contact and reached out for the tray.

“You should at least eat something.” he said and placed the mashed potatoes and beans in Hannibal’s lap. “Build back your strength, get back on your feet.”

Hannibal’s silence as he stared at the contents of the tray made Will frown.

“You can. And you will.”

He got up and motioned to Hannibal before leaving and returned minutes later with a crutch under his arm.

Hannibal moved as if repulsed by the sight and Will didn’t fail to catch his sentiment.

“You are going to need this to balance yourself.” he said and leaned the crutch against the headboard.

Hannibal refused to look at it, his eyes falling back on the splinter holding his right arm in place.

“There’s no shame in it.”

The growl that left his throat and fierceness in his movement made Will take a step back.

“Shame?!”

The familiar strain on his mouth, the dangerous frown on his expression, Will could recognize the relentless soldier that fought in the trenches, eating mud and getting blisters from the shells he had to load into the guns.

He picked up the tray with the stirred potatoes and half eaten beans.

“I will check up on the fever in a few hours. If it’s not down I am calling doctor Chilton.”

Alone, Hannibal fought to keep his anger in check. His veins boiling under his skin, a ball of acute pain pulsating in the pit of his stomach, he felt tears coming to him and a droplet shyly stained his bind.

The crutch resting against his headboard an embodiment of his helplessness.

 _I’ve been forgotten, yes, forgotten, oh how I wonder, how is it I failed_ sang the radio but Hannibal could not register it. The crutch had signs of usage and scratches on the handle.

_Now I’m a soldier, a lonely soldier, away from home through no wish of my own._

He rested his head against the headboard, the presence of the object gnawing at his senses.

He can’t touch it. If he touches it it will come as a confirmation.

**************************************************

Will didn’t come to him the next day, nor the day after.

His fever went down and Beverly tended to his wounds and paid her respects once again while she sterilized the rack with alcohol and dusted off his jacket.

“There’s already stories of you making rounds in the camp.” she said while scrubbing the metal leg of the rack “You saved most of your platoon by signaling the surprise attack. You’re likely to receive a medal of honor.”

She looked up at him, her expression stern.

“Brave men like you deserve such honours. But I assume they’re just trinkets to you.” she finished scrubbing and dumped everything in her bucket “But for the rest of us… how can we express our gratitude in words? We just have to show it somehow.”

She got up and hugged the bucket to her chest. She seemed hesitant.

“I’m guessing you’ve also heard about the increase in casualties on the radio. We won’t despair. Ten men like you out there is all we need for this to be over.”

She looked determined, wholeheartedly invested in her statement before she left Hannibal’s side.

He lay there the entirety of the evening, listening to the groans, counting the number of times someone got sick on the floor, the radio buzzing buzzing buzzing, afraid to fall asleep completely but hovering over the ache in his bones and the phantom creeping up his thigh.

“You didn’t touch it, did you.”

He lifted his head and gazed at Will’s silhouette at the foot of the bed. The camp was dimly lit and Hannibal couldn’t distinguish Will’s expression in the creamy shadows though his voice did give away much of his disappointment.

He moved closer on Hannibal’s left and stopped. He pointed at the crutch.

“Take it.”

Hannibal got up bracing himself on his left elbow, his eyes never leaving Will’s face.

“Take it.” he said, a slight drop in his composure registering in his tone “I was promised a dance and I will have it.”

Hannibal’s mouth parted in astonishment at Will’s demand but the man remained firmly in place.

He didn’t repeat himself once again but simply waited for Hannibal to move from his frozen stance and follow his instruction.

With stilted movements, the solder slid his leg out of bed and dragged his stump, as he leaned over, fighting the ache and the dizziness. The bright spots dancing in front of his eyes took a moment to clear away before he extended his fingers to touch the wooden handle of the crutch. It felt coarse in his palm, as opposed to Hannibal as he was with it but he brought it close and gripped it with disgust.

Because of his broken arm, he had to rely completely on the left side of his body, the imbalance and the blood rushing to his head staggering him in place. His gritted teeth twisted his features as he fought to stand still but to no avail. He felt he was going to fall back but the arms on his sides held him in place.

“Good” Will said and as Hannibal blinked hard to dull the pounding in his head the nurse smiled, his eyes opening into an expression of pride and affection. “Now, easy.”

He gently nudged him to move slightly towards him and Hannibal managed but a step before blurting out

“I can’t.”

“You can, you can.” Will whispered and led him one more step away from the bed.”When your arm heals you will do so much better. Until then, you can lean on me.”

He gently took the crutch from Hannibal’s arm and let it drop on the ground before the soldier slid his arm around Will’s neck.

He smelled of dust and sick and disinfectant and Hannibal barely resisted the urge to dip his head into the crook of his neck. He was so close to him and fit so well against Hannibal’s body, his chest hurt at the thought, drowning out the phantom and its whims.

Will started swaying ever so slightly in time with the jazzy background noise coming for the radio and Hannibal resisted the pressure put on his leg stoically.

“You never told me your name.”

“I was told there are stories about me around the camp.”

“Ah, Beverly. She looks up to you very much.” he smiled in a conspiratory manner “But the point stands. You never told me your name.”

“Hannibal.”

Will felt silent for a moment, continuously leading the sway.

“You conquered the trenches with less than vinegar, as the stories go.”

Hannibal felt a smile creeping on his own face instead of wincing from the pain in his leg. He let it out mostly to Will’s delight.

“Finally.” he said, his lips curving in a way that gave Hannibal a pang of terrible need.

He moved his hand on Will’s cheek, feeling his heart in his throat and Will placed his palm over it, gripping it slightly.

“You did well.” he said and moved away, cuing Hannibal’s retreat.

He helped him back to bed and leaned over for the crutch before putting it back against the headboard. He stopped for a moment and glanced at Hannibal, his lips parting with a silent thought.

“Good night, Hannibal.” he said and left the soldier flexing his fingers for flesh that was not there anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dumb ass realized I have the vaguest notion of Dutch so I had to fall back on the French I know to give the story a little more authenticity. I’m very annoyed with myself right now. Nevertheless, enjoy!

His boots splashed inky mud on his trousers as he advanced through the labyrinth in the middle of the night. It had been raining the entire day and it felt as if his helmet had soaked in all the dampness in the air, the cold metal pressing against his skull on all sides. His jacket stuck to him, moist and uncomfortable as he threaded through the eastern ditches with Second Lieutenant Franklin Amberson to make sure the ground under the sandbags and parapets hadn’t been eroded by the torrential rain.

Franklin was nervously fiddling with his whiskey container, struggling not to fall behind and keep a sharp eye for any breaches in the trench. He was close to coming to a stagger and Hannibal had to stop and turn, scolding the lieutenant with merely a frown.

It was commendable that the man still wanted to fulfill his duties but the matter could not be ignored any longer. Franklin suffered from trench foot and that made him vulnerable. What’s more is that the man had never been a proud individual, rather he had always been unhappy that due to his family’s status, he was naturally advanced quicker than a usual soldier. So he never had anything to prove on the field and Hannibal had half a mind that he drew quite the pleasure to lament the situations he had been put in.

“Franklin.”

The man scoffed

“It’s this fucking rain.”

He motioned with his container before unscrewing the lid and taking a swig.

“But I’ll be damned if I don’t show my foot to my aunt and let it haunt her remaining days, mate.”

Hannibal couldn’t help but crack a smile despite the terrible cold he felt in his arms and thighs and continued along the trench until coming across a group of his men huddled over a body.

He hurried towards them and they all looked up at him with broken expressions.

The man on the ground was Private Lounds. His cheeks were sunken in and his once bright ginger hair was parted now in dirty wisps.

“He’s collapsed on our way to the dugout, sir.” reported one of the men and Hannibal leaned in to touch Lounds’ cheek, feeling the soldier’s clammy skin.

Lounds was gasping for air, his breath a hoarse sound like icicles scraping rocks. He seemed only half aware of what was going on around him.

“Lounds.” Hannibal commanded “Speak to me, soldier.”  
The man’s eyes were unfocused and his lips were twitching in an attempt to form coherent words.

Hannibal got closer and smelled the sickness in his breath.

“Fred… talk to me.”

The beautiful blue of the soldier’s eyes had lost its shine. Hannibal noticed a blood vessel had broken and spread into the corner of his right eye.

The man’s chest was moving slowly up and down with each pained and prolonged inhalation and as he slowly turned to Hannibal, he faintly brushed his hand against his knee.

“They’re… inside me, sir” he said coarsely “The flies… the flies are inside me…!”

He woke up with a startle, his senses bombarding him with information all at once. His eyes hurt from the impossibly bright light, a pang of hunger stabbed his stomach and in his ears, the voice of Fred Lounds lingered just a moment too long.

The radio was tuned in to a pitiful arrangement of string instruments and Hannibal wondered for a second if the permanence of the music came in fact as a result of his own fevered imagination. Has the radio ever been turned off?

There had been another sound that attracted his attention. The sound responsible for jolting his brain and awake him from his sleep. It came again now, distant but present and strangely endearing.

The neighing.

He rubbed his eyes hard, trying to dispel the image of Lounds’ delirium and felt for the side of the headboard. The crutch that lay against it was now infused with new meaning and a promise that was to work as a catalyst to his recovery.

He reached out to it and grabbed the handle. The coarseness of the material reminded him of the adversity he felt towards it when Will brought it to him that day and the feeling was not completely gone. He hated the splinters on the sides and the worn off red paint on the leg. He hated how it felt in his palm and he hated its necessity.

As he slowly braced himself on his left side, dragging his leg off the bed, he remembered the gentle touch and closeness of Will’s body against his, so close so so close to his lips curling in a smile, his cupid’s bow sharply defined, his nose wrinkling in delight. His mind had stored so many vivid stills of the atrocities he had witnessed yet the nurse’s presence had an astonishing capacity of pushing them all out, making way for beautiful vulnerabilities that he had no use of in so many years.

He brought the crutch under his right arm, judging that his shoulder was well enough to sustain some of the weight and planted the leg of the crutch firmly into the ground. He squeezed the wooden handle between his bicep and ribs with as much strength as possible and hoisted himself up with a low groan. He felt weak and out of breath just by standing like that, curled on his right, his head hanging low, fighting off the dizziness and nausea.

With the help of his left arm, he slowly pushed the crutch forward before his left leg followed. The stilted and painful movements made his joints hurt and his entire body contract under the strain.

He could barely focus on his surroundings, the rows of beds huddled together, the casualties lying like dead men on the mattresses, the mast of the building flaking off.

The flaps of the tent were tied to the sides and Hannibal noticed the patch of grass beyond and the sunlight rimming the blades and pebbles. The tent had the red cross painted on the outside, stretching entirely on one side of the roof above him.

He had barely walked a few paces when he heard the neighing again and a voice shushing it gently. A sense of irrational urgency sent him in a panic and he began pushing the crutch harder, trying to pick up the pace. When he pushed it into an indentation into the irregular ground it was too late to redress himself. His reflexes were quick enough for him to shift to his left to take most of the fall damage but not enough to avoid catching his right arm underneath him. His wrist was crushed between the splint and his chest and his body quaked under the sudden pain. He screamed, shook by the pain and the fury boiling in his chest, his jaw straining, his fingers spastically digging into the ground.

His head in a raging haze, he could barely register the quick footsteps and helping arms around him and not even when he was pulled onto his feet and dragged to his bed did he stop screaming in pain and defeat and red anger.

A voice above them all

“Je n’ai pas besoin de vous!”

Pain passed through his limbs like lightning and his throat felt raw.

“Je peux faire ça tout seul! Arrête!”

His voice.

“Bas les pattes, j’ai dit!”

He tried focusing his eyes on him and a hand was placed gently on his forehead.

“Settle down, let me see.”

Hannibal clenched his teeth, letting out subdued groans of his former nervous fit. He let his head fall back on the pillow and felt Will checking his wrist and if the splint suffered any damage.

“The bones have already healed but the area is still very sensitive. Don’t worry, everything seems to have stayed in place.”

He settled back in his chair and softly removed the hair in Hannibal’s eyes.

The soldier was taking deep breaths to bring down his pulse while pangs of pain still jerked into his arm and up his shoulder. He looked at Will who was patiently waiting for his nerves to settle, his keen eyes reading every muscle twitching on his face. He looked terribly unkempt and his Red Cross uniform was wrinkled and dirty.

“I heard… horses.” breathed Hannibal, hugging his right arm to himself.

“Yes. We use them to run our errands, naturally.”

Will noticed the look of relief in Hannibal’s expression and smiled.

“You must have heard Firenze. He’s my courser. Poor guy is so upset when we have to rein him in.”

Hannibal remained silent, taking Will’s image in. His curls were twisted around his ears and he had dirt spotting his jaw and chin. His eyes however were lively and still energized from his run with Firenze. He saw Lounds in them, Lounds in another life, Lounds when he was assigned to his unit and the men pointed at his ginger hair and patted him on the head.

Feeling the tension in his chest, he opened his mouth

“Will…”

“Graham!”

A nurse had stopped at the foot of his bed with parcels under her arms.

“We need you at the rationing station.”

Will nodded and the nurse left. He looked at Hannibal once more before he got up and dusted off his uniform.

‘I’m proud of you.” he said and went after the nurse.

******************************************************

He was soaked in his sweat and he could feel his own smell prickling his nostrils. The day had been unusually hot and his thighs were itching with an impertinent insistence. The phantom was creeping up on his stump, making its daily rounds and his abdomen wound was signaling its presence now more than usual. The fall from earlier morning awakened his atrophied muscles and every little bruise on his body was singing with newfound life. He grew tired of lying in his own dirt, the mattress beneath stained, the band of his trousers sticking to his bandages and pulling at his skin.

The radio was only a droning sound in his ears, coming from somewhere in the dim tent, at the forefront now with the subduing of the groans of the other patients.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, eyes following along the structure of the wooden beams, forcing them to stay open for a moment longer and not let the dreams come.

Footsteps.

Will came over to his side with a tray.

“We were lucky today.” he said and waited until Hannibal scooted against the headboard.

Apart from the usual canned beans, a freshly rinsed red apple stood on the tray.

“Enjoy your dinner.” he added and placed the tray in Hannibal’s lap.

“Will.”

“Hmm?”

“This morning… you were speaking French.”

“Well, yes.” Will smiled amused “I have no reason to talk in metaphors. When I said this is my homeland, I meant it.”

Hannibal took a bite from the apple. It was incredibly sweet as the juice splashed on his tongue.

“Mother?”

“Father. I was born in Brussels though.”

Hannibal was devouring his apple, his mind working on storing the information.

“You know, he used to take me fishing a lot when I was a kid. Didn’t matter where, as long as the water was calm. We traveled all over Belgium like this.”

He sank in his chair and stared out at nothing in particular.

“Seems… so far away now.”

They stood in silence as Hannibal finished his dinner.

Will reached out for the tray.

“You should sleep now.”

Hannibal followed his gaze, his chest a web of aching sentiments.

“I don’t want to sleep.”

Will thought it over for a second and placed the tray on the rack beside the bed. He sank back into his chair and extended his hand. Hannibal looked at it as if he had been presented with something sacred and took it. His fingers entwined with Will’s, tough skin and blistered skin, warm and reassuring, one against the other.

“Will…” he whispered and the look in Will’s eyes moved him to pull the nurse closer as he scooted as far as the bed permitted. Will let himself be guided on the mattress, holding Hannibal’s hand close and slid beside the soldier, an arm underneath his head and pulling him snug against his chest. Hannibal dipped his head into the crook of Will’s neck, smelling the dirt and the sweat and stuffing of the mattress and squeezed Will’s hand against his chest. He felt the nurse’s cheek into his hair, his palm rubbing the back of his neck.

“Will you sleep now?”

“Yes.” he lied.


	5. Chapter 5

His teeth were grinding pebbles; jagged flakes carved his gums and scraped the enamel off his molars and his eardrums were registering the sounds with acute vividness. He was eating mud again, face-down in the dirt to avoid the stench of gas from invading his nostrils. He was slowly suffocating and it felt so peaceful, his muscles relaxing, his fingers sliding along the soft fabric he was clutching, drenched in his sweat and the terrible odor of death his skin was emanating.

The peaceful sensation stopped when he opened his eyes and his heart stung for a moment as he stared at the sterile blue curtain that separated his bed from the other.

The scraping came from his left, where Beverly was disinfecting the makeshift nightstand with a steel wool. She smiled when he turned to her and nodded.

“Good afternoon, sir. Excuse me if I’ve woken you.”

Hannibal motioned as if there was no problem at all despite his chest tightening in his ribcage.

“I need to make sure everything is clean before I take a look at you.” she added and continued rubbing the metal surfaces.

Hannibal scooted back up against the headboard and looked at the thorough manner and strong determination in her carrying her task and a light flashed in his brain, like an alarm that had been delayed as time dilated his perception and his memories were drawn out to the point where everything became a blur; past sensations mingling with the stark reality of his situation formed a strange stasis in which his body was captured and he was almost sure the words came out of his mouth long after his lips had even touched.

“Where is the RAMC?”

He was met with silence as Beverly hesitantly looked at him.

“I… thought you knew.”

Hannibal’s lower lip twitched, readying himself for another blow at his general morale.

Beverly threw the steel wool in a small bucket beside her feet and sighed.

“Long story short, they don’t want us around.” she said taking off her cleaning gloves and throwing them in the bucket as well. “General Crawford thinks we’re all just casualties waiting to happen. We were assigned to this area with the specific purpose of assisting him but he denied us entry beyond the British lines. Then the battles started.”

She sat on the chair and placed her med kit on the night stand.

“That was 2 years ago. I… only assumed…”

“We didn’t know.”

Fred Lounds and his raving in the pouring rain.

We didn’t know.

“We’re the only Red Cross camp in the entire Ypres Salient. The Royal Corps think they can manage everything so what’s the point of sending other volunteers.”

“The others?” he said, fury and disappointment striking his nervous system like lightning.

Beverly zipped open her med kit and took out a pair of scissors.

“Civilians. From Passchendaele. Refugees from Zonnebeke and St. Jean. Cripples from Hill 60.”

She stopped.

“You’re the only soldier here, sir.”

She looked at him with something that very much resembled reverence and just a hint of pity.

“We can’t send a notice to the General that you’re still alive. We can’t but wait for it to end.”

Beverly waited to see if she can read any change on Hannibal’s face but his features were stone. He looked at her, ragged, unshaven, filthy but still strong.

“There’ll be no need.” he said and Beverly looked away, visibly disconcerted.

She tugged at Hannibal’s shirt before rolling it up and exposing the bandage around his abdomen. She then cut along the width and slowly unwrapped it before throwing it in the bucket. She examined the wound briefly before dabbing it with alcohol and began cutting away the stitches.

The skin was still pink around the stark white line that traversed his abdomen just below his intestines and as Beverly pulled at it, he pictured himself holding his entrails, his back against the wall of sandbags. How did he look like when they stumbled upon him? How did he look like now?

“How did you find me?”

Beverly finished pulling out the stitches and wiped along the length of the wound gently.

“We venture sometimes on deserted battlefields and scavenge as much as we can. You can imagine what difference an identification act or personal belonging can make for a desperate family.”

She pulled Hannibal’s shirt down and placed the scissor back into the medkit.

“Hristo and Nikolaj said you were coughing at first and they thought that maybe they were imagining things. But then you started screaming.”

She sank back into the chair as if astonished by her own tale, her hands resting on the half open medkit.

“I’m… not sure if I should show you but…”

She reached into her pocket and took out a small object in her fist.

“I saw it fall from your jacket when the stretcher bearers brought you in.”

Concealed in her palm was a shell case, still giving off a golden shine despite it being battered and in the metal, a loose, flowery design was etched with the utmost care. Acanthus leaves ran around the shell on tangled vines, the design resembling a miniature Ancient column.

Hannibal reached out and took it. It was one of many such shells he had been carving all these years, waiting in his dugout for the slightest change in the wind. He held it in front of his eyes with an eerie detachment, yet Beverly took it for something else.

“It’s beautiful but… I can throw it away if that’s what you’d want.”

Hannibal shook his head.

“No. You can have it.”

She took the shell case from his fingers and Hannibal could register the relief on her breath. She placed it back in her pocket and zipped up her medkit.

“I am done here. Soon we’ll be able to remove the splint as well.”

She smiled and stood up.

“We’ll take care of you, sir. We’re not leaving anybody behind.”

****************************************************

The radio was lamenting same as every evening as Hannibal drifted in and out of sleep with a bothersome ache in his shoulders. He moved on his left side, dragging the stump over his leg and felt the weight of his useless right arm hanging around his chest.

General Crawford had always been a fair man yet the information that has come to light tarnished some of that image. It seemed it was rather a matter of pride not fairness that made Crawford decide against much needed help, letting the volunteers out in the open and fending for themselves. Perhaps he thought they might return to their respective countries, underestimating their willingness for sacrifice. Perhaps he did not have much concern for civilians but rather crushing the enemy lines through whatever means necessary.

Fred Lounds’ bright red tufts of hair.

How many knew?

When the tray was placed on the nightstand he didn’t look up.

“Amberson called this place Wipers. None of them could pronounce it right.”

An amused scoff.

“That’s rather rude, don’t you think?”

He sat in his chair and Hannibal stared at his knees.

“You should have left this place. There’s nothing here but death.”

“Not if we can help it.”

Hannibal shifted on his back and slung an arm over his eyes.

“Listen, you should eat something. You’re skin and bones.”

“I can’t fight anymore, Will.” he said under the cover of his arm, not mustering up the courage to look the nurse in the eye.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I never fought for survival. I went to war because I wanted to die.”

He felt Will’s hand gripping his arm and when he yanked it out of the way he was so close, the blue of his eyes dark and cold in the dim light and he smelt of horse hair and hay.

“I’m not having you say that, not now.” he snapped, his accent slipping from his tongue “Not now, when…”

His lips were twitching with fury and he was blinking rapidly as if suddenly unable to string words together.

Hannibal slipped from his grip and placed a hand on his cheek, gently thumbing at his lips.

“Will… you’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful…” he whispered, fighting back the hurt pounding in his chest and the stinging in his eyes. He watched Will leaning into his touch, his features slowly relaxing as Hannibal’s fingers stroked his skin. He placed a hand over Hannibal’s and turned towards his palm, his lips placing kisses on the pads of his fingers, his thumb and moving down his wrist. He kissed it gently before he directed the palm over his chest and slid it every so slowly towards the inside of his thigh. He silently gasped as Hannibal felt along the soft flesh and leaned in even closer, hovering above the soldier’s lips. Hannibal felt the tightness in his chest exploding into fiery desire as his fingers explored and glided over Will’s length through his uniform.

The nurse was squeezing his thighs together, limiting the movements of the hand on one special spot and squirmed over Hannibal but never lost focus on the soldier’s face.

“Will…” was the only word that came out of his strangled throat and he pushed and stroked harder, ripping out a choked moan out of Will before his lips were blessed with the taste of fresh fruit. The kiss was deep and languid, the apricot on Will’s tongue so fitting and so welcoming, even the phantom sprung to life.

They only parted when Will settled from his shudders and Hannibal took back his hand only to wrap it around Will’s neck.

He felt himself slipping away from the intense rush on his yet recovering body and Will dragging his lips against his own in a whisper.

“You’ll live, Hannibal. You’ll live.”


	6. Chapter 6

He felt his palms clammy as his twitching fingers were gripping for the sheets. It had gotten increasingly difficult to breathe again and spit was dribbling down his chin. It was dark; a jet black cloud was forcing itself down his throat and plugging his nostrils. From faraway he could hear himself hoarsely gasping for air, his lungs raked by the sharp inhales throbbing in his chest. He wondered what happened with the sweet, serene descent that enveloped his body the last time or whether it will come after he’d suffocated. 

 

Apart from his gasps everything was silent as if he was the only living body drifting in the warm void and the noise, all that noise of guns cocking, screams and shrapnel whizzing past his ears was gone, finally gone, engulfed by it.

He remembered the time before, fragments of his younger days, the steel front gate, the trees in autumn and her smiling face when hard fingers gripped him by the shoulders. It was unlike him, quite the opposite, as the nails dug into the flesh beneath his collarbones. He felt himself being shaken in a quick and rough sequence and when he flashed his eyes open, the void seemed to have lingered a moment longer.

“Mie..lasis…”

One black eye was piercing him from underneath a turban of bandages and Hannibal felt tongue-tied, assaulted all at once by fresh air finally filling his lungs and by the hatred that the eye was projecting into his own.

“You! You killed!” the mouth was shouting, the wrinkles around it twisting into the mask of tragedy “Kill, fire! Daughter! Killed!”

Hannibal’s lips parted, his conscious self still on delay and fighting desperately to assess if death finally came for him and this was his judgement.

“Aš… nesuprantu!” he shouted back, his native language laced his heavy tongue as a final attempt to go back to a primordial version of himself, a version that could still hold her arm and race her through the garden.

“Fire!” the mouth shouted, yellow teeth jutting from the gums “Killed! Devil! Devil!”

He felt his collarbone will surely detach if the hands decide to pull him apart on the spot and he was close to let himself be taken to whatever place the creature came from when Beverly’s voice rose above them all.

“Calm down, sir, just calm down!” she said and slid her arm around the creature’s, pulling it away from Hannibal’s proximity.

She was being helped by another nurse he had never seen before who grabbed the creature by the other side and together worked to restrain him and drag him away from Hannibal’s bed.

“Come with us, easy, come on.”

The black eye was still fixed on his own as the mouth kept spitting terrible crimes and punishments to come.

Hannibal slid down onto the mattress and bit into his fist as the shouts went on in the distance overlapping with Beverly’s assurances and the incongruous jazzy tune on the radio. He didn’t fight back the tears nor the phantom making its rounds, but let it all resurface and consume the rest of his strength.

He smelled the iodine before the curtains were parted.

“Hannibal.”

He extended his arm as soon as he approached his bed he pulled him in his embrace not a second later. His arm around Will’s back, Hannibal dipped his head and pressed his forehead against his chest as hard as he could, feeling his heartbeat in his very skull. Will’s arms came around him and cradled his head gently, as he began pressing kisses in his hair.

“He must’ve heard there is a soldier in the tent. He doesn’t understand enough to know you were not the enemy.”

“He forced himself to speak English to make sure I understand. Clear words. Heavy words. Words anyone would understand.”

“Please don’t hold it against him. He’s scared. All of them are.” he said then hesitated. “Aren’t you?”

Hannibal blinked hard against the worn out linen of Will’s uniform.

“I am not. I’m tired.”

He tightened his grip around Will’s back, coiling himself into the nurse as much as he could.

“I feel I am never really awake. I see no difference between my nightmares and my waking hours. The smell is the same. The ghosts are the same. I can only tell when I see you.”

The iodine was hurting his sinuses yet Hannibal didn’t move, taking in the staleness of his mattress and the sweat in Will’s skin.

“It’s a reminder and a reason. I’m only still alive so I can see you.”

Will was still in his embrace but when he spoke, his voice sounded tiny and lost.

“Don’t talk like that.”

He began stroking Hannibal’s nape and gently tugged at the long strands there.

“It’s going to be over soon. You’ll see.”

Silence.

“How long have I been here?”

Silence.

“More than three weeks.”

He felt Will starting to shift and move away.  
“Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.” he said climbing out of the bed and vanishing beyond the curtains.

Hannibal scooted up against the headboard and rubbed his eyes until they felt raw and puffy.

He could move his right arm better and it didn’t feel as heavy in the bind. The phantom was as persistent as ever but the sight of his maimed leg was not as shocking anymore. It became part of his nightmarish routine, his atemporal state of being. A visual of his brokenness.

“Daughter! Killed!”

Not in the fire but with the same brutality. When she was taken from him.

The curtains parted again with Will carrying a little blue bowl. When he placed it on the nightstand, Hannibal noticed the swirl of foam capping it off before Will sat on the edge of the bed and took a straight razor out of the pocket of his uniform.

Will dipped his fingers into the foam and started gently spreading it over Hannibal’s cheeks and chin. He then wiped his hand on his uniform and nudged Hannibal to lean back his head.

He grabbed the blade and ran it up Hannibal’s throat with great precision in a straight line.

“How long have you been in the salient?” he said as he wiped the blade against his uniform.

“Since 1914. I was assigned in the 19th Western Division, IV Corps.”

Will ran the blade from his Adam’s apple to his chin.

“You were there when Zonnebeke was leveled to the ground.”

“Yes.”

The blade was cutting along his carotid.

“How many have you killed?”

Silence.

“I don’t know.”

Will then worked in silence as he ran the blade against Hannibal’s cheeks, in no hurry to finish his task but still very precise in his manner.

“A foreigner as a Lieutenant in the British Army. I’m sure it’s quite an interesting story.”

Hannibal sat still as the nurse shaved his cupid’s bow.

“A man in his late thirties a Red Cross nurse.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?”

“No. Admiration.”

“For?”

“For not choosing sides on a whim.”

Will had finished with the cheeks and was wiping the blade on his uniform before folding it and putting it back into his pocket. He then leaned in and wiped Hannibal’s jaws with the back of his hand.

“That’s better.” he smiled and Hannibal pulled him close in a kiss.

Will’s hands were still on his cheeks, thumbing at the remaining spots of foam as Hannibal’s left arm ran across his back, nudging him to lie next to him once more. Will shifted his weight so as to not put too much pressure on Hannibal’s body and slid an arm around Hannibal’s waist.

When they parted for air, Hannibal whispered

“I want to touch you, Will. Again. More.”

Will rested his forehead against his, skin hot and flustered.

“Hannibal… this is not the place…”

“Tell me this is something you’d want.”

Will bit his lower lip.

“Yes. I want you to touch me.”

They crashed in a kiss again, deep with abandonment until their lips were sore.

Will’s lips were raw pink from being so worked and bitten and Hannibal’s chest was swollen with adoration.

“Stay. Don’t let me sleep.”

Will’s head fell beside Hannibal’s.

“I promise I won’t.” he said, lips against his earlobe.

“Mielasis…”


	7. Chapter 7

The warmth of Will’s body glided along the surface of his skin and despite himself, despite the muffled terror he felt in the pit of his stomach at the thought of falling asleep again, his temples relaxed and his breathing started following the rhythmic movements of Will’s chest. Within minutes, conscious thoughts dissipated into the darkness of oblivion and he slept, trapped into a suffocating molasses that stank of iodine and tear gas.

 

With the great certainty that he had inhaled too much of the gases before having run to safety and the inevitability of death, Hannibal fell to his knees in the dirt and waited. Around him, heavy thuds from the combat boots of his men resounded like thunder but his eyes were fixed on the jagged wound on his stomach. The barbed wire had ripped open his uniform and despite the darkness and the fog, he noticed the bright red string that jutted from the corner of the wound. Curious, he pulled at it but the string was in fact a thick strand of silky ginger hair and as he kept pulling he noticed the blood clots and the pink, raw pieces of stomach caught in the tangles, and the strand was never ending no matter how much he pulled; he wondered if he was turning himself inside out, forgotten was the tear gas and silent was the thunder of boots.

His hand gripped flesh, his mouth opened in voiceless protest. There was a body in his embrace and Hannibal wondered if he was gripping one of his men from the platoon in one final attempt to not let the soldier alone in death.

A palm came over his heart.

“A nightmare again.”

A groggy voice but filled with tension and sympathy.

His blue eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, his beautiful face, his beautiful being.

His heart beat going into a flutter with stupid relief.

“You are still here.” he said

“It must have been an hour or two. I dozed off myself.”

Faraway, the radio was tuned to lazy orchestral music.

Will leaned in and kissed his forehead.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise. I think I really needed that nap.”

Suddenly, Hannibal felt that if he were to loosen the grip on Will, the nurse might crumble between his fingers.

Sensing his hesitation and fear still under the spell of the nightmare, Will shifted to rest his head next to Hannibal’s on the sweat soaked pillow and placed his hand on the soldier’s right wrist.

“Tell me about it.”

Hannibal followed the curve of the curl that rested on his forehead.

“I dreamt of one of my men. He was the youngest in the platoon. A bright and brave boy.” he felt a sting in his stomach but a tiny laugh almost escaped his body. “A nosy little bastard. Read too many detective stories.”

His eyes shifted on Will’s lips and mentally drew the outline of his cupid’s bow.

“He died of dysentery.”

Will’s fingers came into his hair and he gently brushed the strands away from his temple.

“You cared for those men. And you saved as many as you could. Your body is a testament of that.”

He shifted closer.

“That’s the truth and that’s what you should believe. Not what your nightmares are telling you.”

His right hand in a tight, trembling fist, Hannibal shuffled his arm out of the bind and despite the hurt cutting through his shoulder he gripped Will’s chin and brushed his fingers over his jaw.

“My nightmares are the truth, Will. They never lie.”

He raised his splayed fingers and both looked at his partially swollen wrist and battered skin.

“My body is a testament to that.”  
He rested it back on his chest.

“You are the sweet lie I want to believe.” Hannibal said without looking.

He listened while the nurse stilled for a moment before shifting and raising from his bed. Without another word, the curtains parted and Hannibal lay alone before sleep came again at dawn.

******************************************

It was mid-noon when Beverly came with a bucket of fresh water, soap, a sponge, cloth and a change of clothes. Surprisingly, Hannibal felt a terrible pang of hunger but revealed nothing as Beverly sat down and placed the bucket next to her boots.

“I think you’d feel better after a thorough wash, sir. You’ve spent long enough in those stale clothes.”

She looked at his shaved cheeks and smiled.

“You’re already looking better, sir.”

Hannibal knew she was lying. His collarbones drew sharp lines on his chest before connecting to his shoulders. The ribs were poking through his skin from the visible weight loss and the hip bones jutted like flag poles.

Beverly’s face betrayed nothing as she began scrubbing his back, drawing circles over his shoulder blades, following the line of his spine, the taut fiber of the muscles on his chest, his arm pits and the flesh around the bandage on the abdomen. She wiped his body with the dry cloth and helped him put on a clean white shirt.

She leaned for the sponge again before she stopped and hesitated.

“Sir, do I have your permission to… ah… wash your legs as well?”

Her eyes averted, she was squeezing the sponge in her hands, droplets staining her uniform.

“Yes.”

Hannibal was looking away, through the sterile curtains, through the uncomfortable immediate reality.

Beverly carefully unbuttoned his trousers and hesitated. She pulled them down just beyond his genitals and stopped again. With a stifled sigh, she pulled them over his thighs and stopped shortly before reaching his knees, the stump remaining concealed.

She quickly washed his thighs and rubbed the muscles there to bring circulation where it was so needed and pulled the trousers back up.

“There.” she said, forcing a smile “That’s better.”

She dumped everything in the bucket and raised from the chair.

“I’ll bring you your lunch in a moment, sir.”

“Beverly.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have you any news from Passchendaele?”

Hannibal was still looking away and Beverly decided to be brief and leave as quickly as possible for fear of what she might find in his gaze.

“We tried making contact with the RAMC but the area is dangerous and none want to risk it only to be sent away by the General.”

She paused.

“I-I know your thoughts on the matter but… “

“Do not send people to die on my account. That has happened enough.”

Beverly was grateful he didn’t turn. She thought she wouldn’t bear it.

**********************************

Hannibal found himself softly humming the tune on the radio and suddenly realized that along with Will, the device has been a constant as well in his waking hours. The moans and groans of the patients in the other beds were trusty companions in his nightmares but the radio was uniquely appointed as the background of his convalescence so much so that he almost could not recall what the outside world sounded like. He vaguely remembered hearing horses and wondered for a moment if that had been a trick on the radio, perhaps a play was being read and the noises added a little authenticity. He wondered if Will had lied then.

The light was dimmer in the tent and Hannibal ascertained that twilight must have started painting the sky in its warm, stark colours so beautiful this late in summer. The sky was perennial, no matter the struggles on the earth. He had been staring at it for so long in the trenches as a way to bring comfort, to breathe something else than dirt. He remembered cutting a hole in his dugout over a couple of days, just to let inside a blade of light that would touch the cold metal of his Remington model 14 from the rack.

He suddenly knew why the tune was vibrating in his throat and evoked such serenity; the radio was playing Vivaldi’s Summer from his Four Seasons. The sweet sound of the violin was punctuated by the heels of her shoes as she twirled and twirled and he was so pleased seeing her in the grand saloon of their parents’ mansion, the hem of her ornate dress showing her slender calves. His lips parted and he called her name just before the piece ended.

“Mischa…”

It felt heavy, almost sacred on his tongue. The dream and the truth.

Hannibal scooted to the edge of his bed, the stump that was his right leg dangling almost comically and casting an incomplete shadow on the floor. He felt the mashed potatoes and diced vegetables hanging heavy in his stomach and a vague nausea exploded in his body.

He sat there hunched over, his left arm cradling his right and listened to the whimpers forming their own strange melody.

“I was promised a dance” Will had said and the thought pained him.

Hannibal reached for the crutch and placed it under his armpit. With all the strength he could muster he shoved his foot into the ground and rose. The lightheadedness came and went quicker than expected so he shifted the crutch the same way he used it the first time, patiently stepping along with it and monitoring every ache in his body. He parted the curtain with the right arm as much as he could shift it inside the bind and stepped beyond.

The tent was smaller than he had expected, beds crammed into each other, people breathing each other’s sickness. He realized just how isolated he was from the rest, although he was not sure as to the benefit of whom. He looked for the man with the angry black eye and a turban of bandages but he couldn’t spot him. Would the others react the same if they were to see him? For the moment, the patients seemed to be preoccupied by their own injuries, tired from the pain and strain in their bodies, nestled in the suffering of their bedmates.

He pressed on with stilted movements, scraping the crutch against the ground towards the tent flaps, parted just slightly so the last remnants of daylight spilled through. He felt the odd sensation the radio was beckoning him back with promises of other vivid nostalgia trips and pressing his lips together in a thin white line, he stepped outside.

There were three more tents to his left bearing the same large red cross painted on one side and a little far in the distance, the nurses’ canteen and the rationing station. On his left, the makeshift stables and a small row of outhouses in the back. The battered grass crisscrossed at his feet, marking the paths from tent to tent and animal tracks from the horses and the odd stray dog here and there. The smell of manure and hay was stronger here but the horses were calm, gently scraping their hooves on their ground or braying softly.

On the horizon, the red wound in the sky was cut by the short ridge sloping to the east and the gentle dips so characteristic to the salient. Beyond the blues and the purples and pinks, the trenches scarred the earth and men were dying.

He looked down at himself, at what remained of himself but the tears wouldn’t come.

He spotted a nurse approaching but was deterred conveniently by Beverly who grabbed her by the arm and talked her into checking the wounded in the tent next to the canteen.

Silently encouraged by Beverly, Hannibal moved towards the stables where a courser was obediently chewing what sounded like a sugar cube. It was the most handsome and well-kept of all three, his deep brown coat and dark chocolate mane cleaned and brushed, his harness worn but fitting, made of very sturdy leather.

He stepped forward rubbing his palms together and shaking them afterwards.

“Seul un moment, ça ne prendra pas longte-.”

He stopped, measuring Hannibal from head to toe.

“You’re up.”

“Yes.”

Hannibal slid his crutch forward, a little impatient now and wobbled. Will rushed to him and helped him regain his balance. There was hay in his hair and dirt under his nails, his lips cracked from the dry wind and Hannibal wanted nothing more but to confess his desires down to the depths of perversion. Instead he said nothing.

It was the very first time he has seen Will in the light of the setting sun.

He sensed Will was struggling to speak as well so he kissed him hard, noses pressed together and Vivaldi’s Summer echoed in his head and she was twirling and twirling again.

Will let his head fall on Hannibal’s shoulder and finally he spoke.

“Remember when you pitied me my work as a nurse? I should tell you I… I did serve in the army.”

He slid his arms around Hannibal’s waist.

“When Germany invaded Belgium three years ago, I was there. I was in the trenches, fearing for my life but most of all, fearing for the lives of the others. See, I could feel their terror so deeply in my bones, the longing for their wives and children, I could see their faces as clear as a picture and I loved them as if my own. The fear and the agony of death was in me tenfold. The longing tore through me. I felt poisoned. They were poisoning me with their fears. I couldn’t concentrate. I almost shot one of our own.”

Every fiber in Hannibal’s body ached. He understood.

“You were discharged.”

“On the basis of mental instability. They caught me getting high on ether.”

He paused.

“I’m not a lie, Hannibal.”

Hannibal was watching the ridge slope to the east. The wound in the sky dimmer.

“I love you.”

Vivaldi’s Summer.

“I love you, too.”


	8. Chapter 8

_“Will…”_

_“Will… what did you say..?”_

_“I said I love you.”_

_“Was it the truth..?”_

_“Yes…”_

The night was black but the bloated belly of the airship seemed to be pushing the darkness to the side, bending the air and molding it after its shape. The creature was bearing down on him, compressing his oxygen, pushing him down into the dirt. Yet it was so far up in the sky, trudging through the clouds but Hannibal felt its very presence crushing his bones.

The heavy steel flaps opened and the load came down barreling through the night and in the distance, the horizon lit up. Fiery reds and blinding yellows blazed and he heard them scream, throwing their arms above their heads in a desperate invocation to stop the sky from bursting open.

The creature was above him now, swallowing up the world and he was an insect stuck in the mud, waiting to be crushed and somehow it didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt because he loved him.

He lay in bed silently, an arm gripping the frame, concentrating to still his heartbeat. His eyes closed, the darkness of that night burned on his retinas, yet the fear was subsiding quickly. He thought of the blue sky, the blue sea, the blue of his eyes and pushed the creature away. The warmth in his chest radiated through his body, all the way to the tips of his fingers. He was calm now. His breath was steady.

He almost loosened his grip before he heard it. Or rather, he didn’t.

The radio was silent.

Panic pierced him sharply, a cold blade tearing through his lungs, sending his mind in a frenzy. He tightened his core and pulled himself up with a broken groan that sounded odd, the vulnerable shriek of a cornered animal. What happened beyond the sterile curtain? Why could he hear the dying so clearly?

A nervous laugh almost slipped from his lips. At least he had heard Vivaldi’s Summer one last time.

The creature had come and the darkness was now reigning. He couldn’t see much, his eyes refusing to adjust.

Then it happened. Death finally came for him.

He stood there, taking everything in, tears coupling on his chin. He felt his beating heart and almost laughed at the cruelty of it. The phantom pain was present, dancing in his fibers and he stood there and listened and waited for oblivion to come but it didn’t. Someone was crying in the distance, a manifestation of his own silent despair and Hannibal listened, swaying gently as if a lullaby was soothing him.

Even when he registered the steps approaching him he didn’t look up. He was ready to cross the river Styx. He was content with simply waiting for his guide.

Then the mattress dipped, the arms came around him and his chin was gently wiped of his sorrow. Hannibal leaned his head against Will’s cheek and let himself be cradled by the nurse.

“I turned it off.” he whispered “I couldn’t stand it.”

Hannibal moved his arm to pull Will tighter against him and his hand came into his hair. He carded his fingers through and felt the strands slip quickly between them.

“You cut your hair.”

“Yes.”

Hannibal felt the scalp had been sheared rather, a moment’s impulse not a completely rational decision. The strands were uneven and harsh against his palm. He remembered how he looked, his outline drawn in the light of the sunset. How he told him about his addiction. How he told him he loved him.

He pulled back and strained his eyes to see the man in his arms. He stood out against the darkness, an organic shadow, hot and full in his hands.

Hannibal leaned in and captured Will’s lips in a heated kiss, hungry and unrelenting. His tongue licked the inside of Will’s mouth and Will joined him in the urge to consume, twisting in his arms and biting at the soft flesh. He felt so heavy in his embrace as Hannibal pulled him down, the weight a strange reassurance of his actuality, a stark departure from the ghosts lingering from his nightmares. The shape of his shoulders, the movement of his spine, his thighs pressing together to create more friction and chase his pleasure.

Hannibal kissed his jaw and bit his neck like a starving vulture and Will bent to his claim. His hand was pressed hard against his cock, clutching at it through his uniform while the other gripped Hannibal’s shoulder, nails carving crescent moons into the skin. He held back his squirms, spittle in the corner of his mouth while he hiked up his uniform and pulled at the buttons of his trousers. He struggled to slide them off just enough to let his cock free and quickly moved to undo Hannibal’s trousers as well.

“Will…” he said, breath hitching in his throat “I can’t… I won’t last.”

“I don’t… I don’t care.” Will said pulling at the underwear and gripping Hannibal’s length “I want to feel you.” he said and pulled at the foreskin, twisting his wrist “Please, feel me.”

Hannibal fought not to lose himself then and there, and with his healthy arm, he pulled Will close, invading the air he was breathing, swallowing his gasps and his choked sobs. Will’s grip was sending pure electricity through his limbs, pleasure nerves pulled in his brain like elastic. He felt the nurse shaking, abandoned and crowded into him and he wanted to eat him alive, to take his beating heart and devour it right from his chest.

Thick blobs of cum spilled on his belly and slid along his hip and Will followed not a moment after, dirtying his uniform. In the drunken haze of his orgasm, Hannibal thought of the perversion of the act, the spots of cum staining the red cross stitched on Will’s chest.

He felt his entire body ache from the exertion so he lay there, listening to Will breathe, listening to his very muscles relax.

It was quiet now. The world was quiet.


	9. Chapter 9

Hannibal’s lids were heavy and he felt his eyelashes a tangled mess of bent pins, pricking his skin. The heat he was nestled in was a cocoon, his breath only adding to the overbearing air, yet he took it all in, gently, in long, drawn-out inhales. Stale sweat and cum and hay and unwashed hair, he took it all and it was still not enough.

 

His right arm was out of the bind and flexed around Will’s waist, tiny pain serpents running through his muscles. His left arm went under Will’s side and held the nurse’s chest possessively, an organic, pulsating vise. Hannibal’s face was buried in Will’s nape, feeling the jagged edges of his sheared head on his cheeks, tasting the sweat at the roots. As it was, the sudden need to consume crept in his body, it took every inch of his fiber not to bite into the skin and tear the flesh from Will’s rib cage in a manic outburst of emotion.

Will was a disheveled mess of skin and cloth, his uniform dirty and hiked up his sides and beads of sweat sliding down the dimples on his back and in the crook of his thigh. He was deep in sleep, a small noise escaping his parted lips and Hannibal thought he sounded as vulnerable as glass.

He blinked slowly and gently felt the skin on his belly and the curve of his soft cock. His broken arm hurt less now and the phantom was gone.

His hand was gliding on the moisture on Will’s skin but the nurse barely moved. It was quiet. It hasn’t been this quiet in a long time.

He was dozing off to a shallow sleep when he felt Will’s back straightening in his embrace. The nurse settled right back and cradled the arm on his chest.

“I am so behind work it’s embarrassing.” he whispered amused and Hannibal smiled in his hair.

“I’m glad you stayed.”

Will paused for a moment before turning around, careful not to put too much pressure on Hannibal’s shoulder. He settled against Hannibal’s forehead and the soldier cupped his face with the injured hand. He ran his fingers on his cheek and jaw and Will moved to touch the bandage around his wrist and felt the splint keeping the bones in place.

“You’ll soon be rid of this.” he said “The wound on your abdomen is closed and you will learn to walk again. Will you still take me dancing?”

Hannibal smiled, his chest swelling with the memory and the promise.

“Nothing will stop me from doing so.”

The kiss was long and languid, each taking their time to revel in the feeling of their tongues together and the way their mouths slotted so easily.

When Will broke off the kiss, Hannibal moved to kiss his eyelids, his brow, his forehead, not wanting to be bereft of Will’s skin on his lips just yet.

“I love you.” he whispered

Will threw his arm around Hannibal’s neck and kissed along the outline of the carotid artery.

“I love you too, Hannibal. I love you so much it’s suffocating.”

He kissed his jaw and chin and lips.

Hannibal wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in the crook of Will’s neck, feeling the quickened pulse against his cheek.

Suddenly, the nurse moved away from his embrace and began taking off his uniform.

“I have to wash these clothes.” he said and bunched the uniform in his fists.”Let me get your shirt.”

He peeled off Hannibal’s shirt one arm at a time and added it to the pile.

“I will probably have to wash the sheets too.” he added and grinned at the memory.

Hannibal smiled back and watched him pull up his trousers and fix his clothes as much as possible.

Will locked eyes with him before leaning in for another kiss and gathered the clothes at his chest.

“When this is over, all we’ll have is time.”

***************************************

The air cooled his skin as the last remnants of the early morning were drifting away. He felt goosebumps on his chest and arms but thought the moment strangely enjoyable. He stretched as much as he could, sending the prickly sensations in all of his muscles. The pain was subsided now. The nightmares had not come.

The smell of Will was impregnated in the pillow and he dipped his face into it, gripping the mattress.

 _“If you only had been here, Mischa,”_ he thought _“I would have been completely human again.”_

The pained sounds of the wounded civilians were softer now, vibrating from far away and as he lay there, boxed in by the curtains, he felt oddly safe and disconnected. He heard the horses trampling the ground outside and thought of Firenze, Will’s agile courser, and the ponies they had on their land and how she still preferred Hannibal’s black stallion, so elegant and dignified in his strut.

Heavy boots followed, stomping the ground and coming closer and Hannibal recognized the demanding, graveling voice and a sudden, sharp and raw sense of despair punched the air out of him.

Before the curtains were parted, nearly ripped from the ringlets, Hannibal had the man’s name on his lips.

“Major Bloom.”

Major Alan Bloom was an imposing man, both in height and attitude, deep wrinkles framing his icy blue eyes and a thin, faded line for an upper lip. His nose was crooked and aquiline, and when he snarled at Hannibal, it twisted even more. He looked no less than appalled at Hannibal as he assessed the soldier’s situation.

“By jove, Lecter,” his voice rumbled from the depths of his throat “How did they manage to do this to you?”

He stepped closer to the bed and was followed by a young man wearing the Royal Army Medical Corps insignia on his upper sleeve and Beverly, who barely had the time to fix the head dress of her uniform.

“Is this what you call proper care?!” Bloom bellowed and motioned dramatically, the Webley at his hip jingling.

“We did the best we could with what we had, sir.” Beverly answered, visibly insulted.

Bloom turned to Hannibal and scanned him quickly again.

“God be damned, man, we thought you dead! The men all swore on their mothers you were caught in the explosion.”

Bloom patted his gun nervously.

“Those fucking Germans! Speak Lecter, are you a mute now too?!

Hannibal felt his jaw hinged shut.

“How…” he uttered, his throat dry

Bloom straightened his back. Despite the heat, the tunic was buttoned up to his neck and there was not a single bead of sweat on his forehead.

“As soon as we got the telegram, General Crawford ordered us to ready our horses. We rode the entire night to get to you.”

Bloom patted the young medic on the back, shaking him in his boots.

“Taggart here will take a proper look at you. As soon as I get his confirmation, we’re leaving. The General wants to see you and congratulate you in person. Well done, man, well done.”

Hannibal was struck, gripping the sheets beneath him.

“Telegram..?”

Bloom’s expression was incredulous.

“My word, have they lobotomized you? Taggart, take a look at him, the man is raving.”

The young man quickly moved to examine Hannibal’s leg for gangrenes and other infections under the major’s scrutiny.

“Have no worries, Lieutenant. Rest for the moment. We’ll feed the horses and soon be on our way.

Bloom saluted and stepped away and Hannibal watched the mud prints marking his departure. He could taste it in his mouth again.


	10. Chapter 10

Taggart pulled the ends of the bandage with strangely delicate calloused fingers and Beverly stood frozen at the foot of the bed, hands clasped together in her lap. The silence between them ballooned in Hannibal’s ears, pressuring his eardrums until it began to hurt. The stillness gave him the sense he was part of a diorama, put on display for a giant, scrutinizing eye to see and gloat at. It felt like Taggart was moving slow and Beverly was barely breathing and Hannibal’s bloodstream had settled down into a sluggish crawl through his veins.

The bandages rustled, revealing the grotesque stump. The remaining scrap of bone that once was his tibia was jutting out like an accusing skeletal finger from the bumps of moist purple meat around it. The flesh around the wound had been cut and the healthy skin pulled over and stitched shut in thick, slanted lines.

“What did you treat him with?” Taggart’s voice came from far away and Hannibal felt the giant eye grew tired of the pathetic scene. Time returned to its normal constraints.

“C-carbolic lotion.” Beverly uttered and Taggart scoffed. It was the first time the boy showed any signs of self assertion.

“Of course. You didn’t bipp him.”

“We don’t have the paste. Everything goes to the Royal Medical Corps.”

“Which is why you should have given up when told to instead of practicing makeshift medicine.”

Beverly’s eyes were glassy, tears threatening to come down her cheeks. Her mouth was scrunched in anger.

“Don’t you patronize me.” she said and quickly wiped her nose. Taggart looked up and Beverly’s eyes threw daggers at him. “Don’t you dare insult me.”

Taggart, all too certain of his expertise despite his age, held her gaze defiantly.

“The patient is alive still. I suppose it did its job.” he muttered and wrapped the leg carefully before getting up and moving towards Hannibal’s upper body.

As he extended his arm to check the pulse, Hannibal grabbed his wrist. Taggart looked into the soldier’s red corneas, a myriad of veins spreading across the whites of his eyes and clutching at the iris. He saw fury, desperation and sadness boiling beneath despite his disconcerting blank expression.

“Don’t touch me.” he said coldly and Taggart’s mouth hung open.

Hannibal turned to Beverly and she knew. Her hesitation to respond churned Hannibal’s bowels. Her lips trembled as she uttered:

“He’s left for Ypres.”

Hannibal let go of Taggart and the boy quickly readjusted his sleeve. Hannibal’s expression was a mask of stone, weary of the time eroding its ancient surface, his body stiff if not for the twitching of the muscles in his throat.

“Sir, y-you have a broken ulna and perhaps other concussions judging by the...” Taggart began explaining but Hannibal was far away, in a place where the sun was drawing a radiant corona around Will’s head, where he placed his head on his shoulder and told him he loved him.  _ Will, Will, Will _ , a voice chanted and he suddenly became aware of his heartbeat thundering in his ears like a war drum.

“I’m not leaving.”

Taggart was apparently still talking. He stopped, wide-eyed and stuttered

“S-sir, Major Bloom and I-”

“I’m not  _ LEAVING _ !” Hannibal roared and grabbed Taggart by his collar with all the strength he could muster before pushing him back into the curtain. As he stumbled, the boy gripped the curtain, ripped it from its ringlets and fell against the next bed in the row, hitting his spine against the metal edge. The patient lying on the bed jumped and drew away his injured legs as much as he was able to.

The commotion sparked a cacophony of voices as Beverly rushed to Hannibal’s side to calm his outburst. They briefly managed to exchange looks before Major Bloom parted the flaps of the tent and shouted for all to hear.

“What in God’s name is the meaning of this?!”

Taggart was struggling with the curtain, fighting to find his balance.

“S-sir, the lieutenant is refusing to leave!”

“What?”

Bloom marched to Hannibal’s bed with the gravity and presence of an incoming thunderstorm.

“Lecter. Care to explain this absurdity?”   
Hannibal’s mouth was twisted as if his teeth were needles in his gums. His mind was racing to say something, anything, but he was stirring, bile was in his throat and the pain, the phantom pain was there.

Bloom’s fury was building up with each passing moment.

“Desertion, Lecter?” he said, gritting his teeth. “Desertion when you stand to be medaled?”

Bloom threw Taggart a glance.

“The man is hysterical, clearly. Have you got it?”

Taggart got up and was already rummaging through the pouch strapped to his belt.

Beverly whispered a soft  _ ‘no’  _ as Major Bloom wrapped his hands tightly around Hannibal’s throat. A few steps to the side, Taggart was emptying a stout, transparent bottle on a handkerchief.

“We are leaving now, Lecter.” Bloom growled as Hannibal was gasping for air, weak arms pathetically batting at Bloom and scraping his powerful hands to let go. Bloom’s grip was a vise, putting enough pressure on his esophagus to force Hannibal to draw deep breaths, flaring his nostrils and opening wide, seeking relief. Taggart moved deftly alongside Bloom and held the handkerchief ferm against Hannibal’s mouth, forcing him to inhale the substance.

A sour taste coated his tongue and the back of his mouth and his sinuses were hurting, as he had no choice but to welcome inside the poison. Major Bloom developed three sets of eyes and two mouths, a grotesque apparition that was there to punish. In the name of Fred Lounds, in the name of the injured man with the turban, in the name of the corpses rotting on the battlefield.

Hannibal heard Beverly screaming from somewhere and everywhere as his mind slowed down like a decommissioned, rusted machine and his body went limp. He wasn’t hurting anymore, oh, he wasn’t hurting  _ at all. _ It was just like before, when he was dying. Before he opened his eyes and saw him at his side.

His eyes were heavy lidded now and he was swaying gently, his body featherlight. He thought it was perhaps the sweat that held him down, otherwise he could have easily floated away. So light, so light, so easy, so happy.

 

**********************************************

The constant movement was bouncing him back and forth but he was securely anchored to the seat. The warmth of the body pressed to his back was comforting. Arms were around his waist but they were rigid, holding the reins. He felt coarse hairs against his cheek, the smell of barn and mud and rain filling his lungs. He was breathing softly, as if afraid something might break on the inside, expanding like freezing water.

He couldn’t open his eyes fully and focus, it felt like he needed superhuman strength to do so. But he saw the greenery stretching to his left where bare rocks glistened in the light of dawn. Blotches of color danced before his eyes. A gentle river flowed to the east, where the beech woods covered a row of gentle hills. The side they were on had much sparser grass and trees, with patches of bare earth dotting the land where it met the river. Tall, purple flowers lined the other side, making their way through the moss-covered rocks. Hannibal thought he could hear frogs and crickets, albeit overpowered by the monotonous trotting of hooves. 

He closed his eyes again, feeling the warm wind in his hair and on his skin and then the terrain was leveled, a slope on the horizon burned by the peak of sunrise. There was no more grass. The ground was overturned with weeds springing like dried out serpents from the dirt. The tree stumps were rivaling his injury. The earth was plagued and sheared and battered.

Hannibal heard someone weeping. He was too numb to feel anything but it might as well have been him.

 

************************************

Beneath him, the mattress was soft, taking the shape of his body. His head was raised by a stack of pillows to increase comfort and keep his spine in the right position. He was slow, still too slow to properly deliberate his current situation. He batted his eyelashes, the fatigue still refusing to melt away.

He noticed he was dressed in civilian clothes, clean and warm and just the right fit. His right arm was bandaged from the wrist to the elbow, a thin splint keeping the bone secure in its last days on the mend. The end of his stump was now rounded off nicely, wrapped in clean bandages, hidden in the leg of the trouser, folded neatly underneath.

He was put in isolation yet again. The room was austere. A simple desk in the corner with stacks of dossiers surrounding a typewriter. A simple wooden chair. A British propaganda poster on the far wall, shouting in bold red letters ‘ **Lend your five shillings to your country and crush the Germans** ’, a German soldier caught under the weight of the coin. No windows.

There were spots on the ceiling and the varnish had cracked around the sole lightbulb hanging from wires secured with duct tape. There were noises and murmurs beyond the room but Hannibal could not distinguish anything in particular. He couldn’t move too much; getting up was beyond any hope. So he lay there, counting the spots on the ceiling, his mind too drugged to send the right impulses into his body. He lay there and waited and then the door opened.

Major Bloom stepped in and made way for the sturdy form of the general to take shape before his eyes. General Jack Crawford’s expression was impenetrable, his cap framing his bold features. Sturdy jaw, black eyes glinting in the sockets, full lips pressed together in an expression of gravity. His woolen khaki uniform was hugging his imposing frame and the yellow accents on the sleeves were just the right complementary to his deep dark skin. His well worn Webley MK VI was resting on his hip, strapped to the thick, Mil-Spec belt.

He closed the distance between the door and the bed in three blunt steps and looked at Hannibal with indulgence. Even with his unfocused eyes, Hannibal could see the pity beyond that expression of conflicted pride.

“I’m glad you’re still among us, lieutenant.” he spoke, a grave, deep voice rumbling from his throat that commanded attention. “Though I am not quite sure just how much. Major Bloom informed me Taggart used half a bottle of phenobarbital to calm your hysteria.”

Major Bloom was looming in the doorway, a predatory creature scrutinizing the conversation. General Crawford leaned in and spoke a little softer.

“Rest assured, this incident does not erase your actions on the battlefield. I will personally propose you to be a recipient of the Victoria Cross medal for your bravery and service. The witnesses are of course, plenty. Well done, Lecter.” he said and grabbed Hannibal’s shoulder. He squeezed gently and straightened his back.

“Now rest. You’ve suffered enough at the hands of the incompetent. As soon as you’ve recovered, I’ll arrange you go back to London. You’ve done your duty.”

General Crawford saluted, turned his back and headed outside while Bloom glanced at Hannibal one last time.

Alone, Hannibal slept.


	11. Chapter 11

General Crawford’s notion of recovery was relative. Hannibal could still feel the phenobarbital tugging at his synapses, making him sluggish, complacent, as he was hauled into the brutalist metal beast that was the King armored car, alongside Taggart and the driver.

They had wrapped him in a civilian linen suit that was drawing all the moisture from his body, making him sweat down into his shoes. Taggart was monitoring his pulse as the driver turned the key and the engine coughed its rugged, worn out signal that it was still alive and ready to go.

On his right, General Crawford was quietly observing him, his shoulders straight and arms behind his back, a demeanor meant to illustrate a man with a pondering mind, taking his time to consider all the aspects of a situation before reaching the right solution. Hannibal caught his eye.

Around them, men of all ranks were trotting to their duties, running from barrack to barrack to check on supplies and report to their commanding officers. Their guns were dangling from their belts, their faces pulled into blank expressions or permanent frowns, hunched over, hurting, carrying their helmets, carrying their assault rifles, dragging their feet, buttoning their tunic. All moving behind Crawford like worker ants, so much so that Hannibal’s peripheral vision registered them as blurred horizontal stripes in the background.

Then Crawford nodded and the armored car started moving.

 

*************************************

The sign marking the exit read **Poperinge** as the car headed north-west on the country road. The sturdy machine was meant to traverse the muddy plains with ease but it was just as graceless as it looked.

Taggart was crammed into Hannibal, his Webley continuously poking him in the side. The aid kit had been slung to his right, away from Hannibal’s reach. The soldier supposed that a new bottle of phenobarbital was tucked in there, should his bout of hysteria return. As the low plains and the rare thickets ran in the opposite direction in front of his eyes, Hannibal decided not to show any sign of distress. Where he has headed, distress was treated in rather cold blood, a strange continuation of the suffering on the battlefield. Although being there, his head fallen to the side and probably still not in complete control of his limbs, time was furiously contracting around him. All these years felt like a fever dream at best. The images he had perhaps created by reading a lengthy novel in the comfort of his own bed. The tragedy and the romance; perhaps it was all part of the novel that stayed with him until sleep placed its warm palms over his eyes.

But the feel of Will’s shape in his arms. The feel. Will was real and when his mouth moved and said _“I love you, too”_ it was real. The night they shared in exalted intimacy was real and when Will smelled of hay and horses and iodine, it was real. His love for Will was so complete, he did not dare degrade it to the rank of a mere dream. He lost him now but the sentiment stayed and it will stay until the end of his days.

His heart was in his throat, pangs of hurt making their way through the numbness in his body. He was hoping Taggart won’t notice.

So, he decided to stay quiet. He will keep his secret and perhaps only the shadows and the walls of his home will ever know.

The surroundings were so barren, Hannibal felt again the probable tricks of Time. It felt they had been stuck in a loop, the car rolling through the same patch of countryside in silence. Taggart looked at him briefly but Hannibal didn’t meet his glance.

A small lake had inundated the terrain on the right, drowning the grass and breeding toads and buzzing insects. The fields were moving in time with the noon wind and some shy pansies and dandelions were lining the road as they went on.

Narrow rivers and clear streams accompanied them the rest of the way, slithering through the earth until they reached the waters of the Yser river. Its impressive breadth was narrowing on both sides of the horizon, where the earth met the infinite sky. The sturdy metal bridge ahead was the final link that lead to the borders in the Oost-Cappel region.

The driver was quick to explain their purpose to the French border patrol but they insisted on the documents Taggart had to produce from his pouch. One of the patrolmen peeked inside at Hannibal and seemed to be convinced simply by looking at the drool on his chin and unfocused expression. He straightened his back and shook his head as his colleague handed the documents back with a short _“Bien, passez-vous”_ mutter.

It was late in the evening when the car reached Rexpoëde. There was a small military unit just on the west of town that was expecting them. Men outside the fenced area were signaling them to stop the car near the sleeping barrack, to make the transportation of the wounded man quick and easy. Hannibal was carried by the shoulders by two sturdy privates and laid down in the bed farthest from the door. Taggart made sure his vitals are proper before leaving for the cantina, to dine with the others.

With a single lamp forming a halo of light to his left, Hannibal’s thoughts turned back to Will. In his mind’s eye, he started tracing his contour, the curls of his hair, the sharp V formed by his Cupid’s bow, his strong arms, the dimples in his lower back. He didn’t have to improvise a single feature, he remembered him whole.

His beautiful flushed face when he guided his hand between his legs.

The throbbing in his groin made Hannibal reproduce the gesture. He felt his cock filling with hot blood, twitching in his palm. His pulse quickened at the thought of Will’s hand on his length, stroking him hard, pulling at his foreskin and thumbing around the head. Will’s mouth on his own, Will’s tongue on his own. He wondered how he would taste if he were to take him in his mouth, how would he look underneath him, how would he moan and if he would call his name.

Hannibal stroked himself quick, swallowing down sobs until he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He stopped, the pain in his loins unresolved and covered his mouth. He cried quietly until he fell asleep.

 

***********************************************

The car left the next day at 6 am sharp and blazed through the Warhem and Téteghem communes. It was nearly 9 am when they arrived at the grand port of Dunkirk. Monstrous ships were exhaling dense fumes as the sailors carried containers up on the deck. Ship captains were checking logs and yelling instructions to their subordinates and whistles blared from all sides, announcing departures. A container barge was floating in the distance on the right and a few fishermen boats were anchored at the edge of the marina, suspiciously close to a rowdy bar. The sign read ‘ _La Chanson de la Mer’_ and the sea food menu was written in large cursive on a blackboard in chalk and placed against the side wall. The port smelled of salt and moss still the air was refreshing, cooling Hannibal’s body in the uncomfortable linen.

The driver, whose name Hannibal had no interest in remembering, got out to help Taggart carry him from the car to the nearest naval ship, just on the left of a seaplane tender that had reached the shore. The military vessel was a small sized patrol boat managed by a crew of five who were very prompt in jumping to help Taggart and the driver getting Hannibal on deck. The captain saluted Hannibal with great reverence before offering the privacy of his cabin until they would reach Canary Wharf in a few hours. Hannibal weakly nodded and was lead into the cabin.

Taggart requested a moment to do a final check up before the boat’s departure. Left alone with Hannibal, Taggart never touched his kit. He stood over the soldier, struggling to form words. He tried clearing his throat and spoke up, his voice breaking in the process.

“They’re sending you to Maudsley.”

Hannibal didn’t flinch.

“By your recommendation.”

Taggart looked awkward and uncomfortable.

“You were screaming in your sleep, sir.”

Hannibal turned his head away from Taggart and the boy felt a sting in his chest. He briefly followed the shape of his jawline and the jut of his upper lip.

“I-I wish you well, sir.” he mumbled and went out.

Hannibal closed his eyes. Moments later, the boat started to move.

“ _The sea, the sea,”_ he thought _“the sea, the sea, the sea…”_

 

********************************************************

As soon as he went through the large doors, Hannibal decided his stay at Maudsley Psychiatric Hospital has to be made brief.

The building was painted in white and red, with classical Greek pedestals framing the entrance; architecture that Hannibal would have admired in other circumstances. Now, however, it looked like an austere hybrid, as it was on the inside. Wards cut into elongated rectangles and hosting as many beds as possible and wide, endless corridors, running around the length of the building.

The ward he was assigned to was on the first floor. It seemed like a larger, perhaps cleaner, version of his isolation makeshift ward at the Red Cross camp. Instead, now he could see uniforms on the wounded, a multiplied version of himself in each bed, missing limbs, torn eyes, lungs poisoned by the mustard gas. Wailing, muttering to themselves, grunting, groaning.

Hannibal decided he was not going to be like them.

He memorized all of the nurses that came by the ward and took mental notes of possible patterns in their shifts. He noticed the dark skinned nurse, Reba, would come by him the most, bringing his meals and pills. He liked Reba with her shiny, healthy skin and glinting eyes so he talked calmly to her, smiled even. She liked it when he smiled. He practiced it plenty, face down into the pillow. He talked and smiled and took the pills and asked her if he would see her tomorrow again. She would smile back and tell him _‘of course’_ and then he would get up and use the crutches to get to the bathroom. He would shove two fingers down his throat and vomit everything till the last drop in his stomach.

Hannibal slept during the nurses’ lunch break. He pretended to the rest of the time. He was always awake when the screams came from the second floor and the lights flickered.

When the Gotha dropped the bomb on Southampton Row, shattering the windows of the Bedford Hotel, Hannibal felt his heart leaping in his throat, blocking his breathing. He sat on the bed, eyes glued to the window in a bout of catatonia that fortunately passed before the nurses noticed.

But by the end of September he felt too tired to keep up appearances so he began gagging himself at night with two handkerchiefs he had asked for on different occasions, to muffle as much sound as he could should his nightmares come. He was always sure to wake up before anyone else to take off the gag and cover himself at night up to his nose, claiming he was too cold with just the one sheet.

By the middle of October, he had perfected his person suit. His calculated gestures, expressions and tone of voice could be easily manufactured in accordance with the interlocutor. Reba was very happy with his progress with the crutches, especially now that his right arm was able again. She marveled at how calm and optimistic Hannibal was, praising the British troops and trusting the war will end soon with a resounding victory. He smiled and held her hand and told her that she had been a tremendous help in his recovery. Sweet Reba.

It was already November. The glacial cold of the upcoming winter floated in the air and crept under the doors of his estate. Hannibal had sealed himself inside since he had set foot again in his home a month ago. His hair had grown down to his shoulders and a salt-and-pepper beard hugged his cheeks and chin. He had barely gained any weight but he wasn’t too fond of eating anyway. He had gradually lost track of time and the sense of things, wobbling around his house like a lonely ghost, lost in a purgatory with odd comforts for his tired body.

He hadn’t touched his straight razor since two Wednesdays ago.

He gazed at the tiny dent in the skin of his cheek as the blood trailed down, bubbling on his jaw. So much blood for such a tiny, little hole.

It’s easy. It’s quick. Fuck that medal. It was never part of any of his aspirations.

The straight razor glinted in the stark, white light cast by the bulb overhead.

A press and a pull. His life was his to take.

His forearm was soft and weak, he wouldn’t even need a strong hand to cut through the flesh. He won’t even need the bath. Then everything will stop. He won’t need his person suit and he won’t need himself.

“I love you.” he said to the straight razor. His eyes were glossy and the tears slid down on his lips. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He dropped the razor in the sink and curled up on the marble floor, his head in his arms.

But that was so long ago. He had centuries to think about Mischa and Will and horses and music and suits and guests and parties and private lessons. The incantation from before had lost any magical properties that would ward off death. It had become a part of him, an axiom, a priori knowledge. He would die full of love.

His straight razor in his hand again, Hannibal was calm. Outside, flurries danced around in the wind bellowing with insanity. What time was it again? How long has he been standing barefoot on the marble floor, razor waiting to bite in his flesh?

When he started slicing under his palm, the bulb went out.

Then, there came the knock.

  



	12. Chapter 12

The razor stopped cleaving his flesh. He stood silent, so silent, he could hear the drops of blood hitting the edge of the sink, sliding down the underside and pooling next to his toes. Petrified in the jet black darkness he waited, staring blankly in the direction of his razor. What was that? One of Death’s little tricks, a sign it was gloating at another poor bastard making its job easier?

Instinctively, he looked up into the mirror above the sink but the darkness did not reveal anything. The wind blasting through the nooks and crannies in his house sounded like a ghost playing an ethereal flute. Did he even hear anything? Was it only the blood bubbling in his ears, waiting to come out where he had cut himself?

The silence was suddenly pierced by furious knocking, a fist battering the door relentless. Hannibal’s heart started racing in his chest and he felt his able foot a block of lead. Part of him thought that insanity would perhaps be a marvelous thing to study to someone of a better mind. Perhaps in another life, he would have done it as well.

Of course, he was going to ignore the knocking. There was no point in humoring the tricks of Death, he was too tired to play games. He wanted to sleep, sleep forever. But the wind was too loud still, moaning through the rooms of his house, intending to keep him awake.

His left palm had gone a little numb and Hannibal smiled. Soon, soon, soon.

The knocking has stopped as well so Hannibal only listened to the wind, swaying gently to its song. He started humming.

Then he heard it.

_ Hannibal! _

The wind… was it calling his name?

The battering resumed and the voice called again.

_ Hannibal! _

How rude of Death to play these cheap tricks. 

So be it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He dropped the razor in the sink and reached for the crutches.

He was moving slow, dragging the crutches against the floor, marking his uneasy steps with a thick trail of scarlet blood. His hand was slipping from the handle on the crutch, fingers dipped in deep red.

The windows above the entrance of his home were casting a ghostly light in the foyer, diffused but solid and dust particles twirled around his head. Heavy lidded and cold, he was getting close towards the door. He grabbed the handle. The knocking stopped. And Hannibal opened.

The wind blasted inside, sending a gust of ice and flurries towards his body and Hannibal had to close his eyes and shield himself. Through squinted, tired eyes he saw.

There was a dark silhouette standing in his doorway. The dark green tweed jacket was slightly bigger than its frame so the wind filled the empty spaces and the edges fluttered wildly in all directions. It looked like the silhouette was morphing before his very eyes, uncertain of the shape it should take. The thick, woolen scarf was hiding the throat of the shadow and the mess of hair swirling in the darkness was the split image of a modern gorgon.

What made Hannibal drop his crutches and lunge at the shapeless shadow however, was the smell. 

It smelled of iodine.

His hands feverishly began to explore the features of the shadow like a blind beggar, his fingers twisting in its curls, feeling its lips and chin and eyes. The cold was biting at his nakedness, only having bothered to dress in his pajama bottoms, and he felt his toes going completely numb on the pebbled patio. 

His mouth fell open and he let out a horrific shout, his heart contracting in his chest to the size of a pea. 

The shadow let out a strangled laughter of relief and then Hannibal kissed. He kissed through the flurries, the tears and the blood and the shadow, no… not a shadow

**Will**

shared in the kiss, the tears and the blood.

Then Hannibal fell to the floor and Will followed, any space between them now hurting too much to bear. He was aching, the hurt was defeating in its power but he was arching under Will and Will followed the movement, two wavelengths settling onto each other, shedding away his tweed jacket, his scarf, his shirt. Their hands were greedy, scratching at flesh and pulling at the skin.

The wind was beating at them, the door having been left wide open and frost was lining Will’s spine and shoulders as he arched his back, desperately trying to open himself to Hannibal. 

To consume and be consumed.

Wriggling like starving worms and burning like embers.

It hurt sitting himself on Hannibal’s cock, preparation taking too long to get to completion. Tears were streaming down his frozen cheeks as Will rode the pain. Hannibal followed close, flesh barely parting from flesh in a dance that resembled the waves of a stormy sea. Yet, their bodies were still too far apart.

In a grunt of anger and desperate need of complete osmosis, Hannibal rolled them over and pinned Will underneath, each forearm to each side, capturing Will’s head and pinning it in place. Hannibal pushed and pushed and pushed, stilted and rough, groaning and crying out his pain. Will was crying too, pressed against Hannibal’s lips, arms locked around his neck, pulling at the hair on his nape. Legs spread wide, straining under Hannibal’s weight. His feet were frozen and blistered, his soles cracked and rough.

A thin stream of blood slid between Will’s legs and traversed the floor before the wind blew it into a splatter.

Hannibal felt Will shudder against him. He wanted to protect and ruin at the same time, suffocating Will in his embrace and snapping his hips, shedding the blood.

His mind wandered to the raping of Europa on the shores of Crete.

He came hard, spilling deep inside Will, his body trembling like a leaf.

Not a mere dream. Not him. Never.

“H-how dare.. you…” Will coarsely whispered through sobs.

They were the first words he had spoken. Hannibal could barely raise his head but he did. 

Will was smeared with blood on his cheek and neck, where Hannibal’s wounded hand had been. His skin was dry from the freezing wind, his lips chapped and still bearing a hint of purple. His curls were a whirlwind on the top of his head.

“How d-dare you… gave up on your l-life… w-when I never did.”

Hannibal’s face was a twisted mask of hurt.

“Will…” he started but nothing else came out.

Will reached out to stroke his cheeks and Hannibal leaned into the touch. He was startled by the feeling. His hand came over Will’s and pulled it back.

The ring finger and little finger on Will’s right hand were severed two knuckles down.

Hannibal’s chest ached. His mind raced to find an object to his anger. The amorphous hurt was too vast for him to grasp.

Will flexed his remaining fingers, having read Hannibal’s expression and gave a bitter smile.

“How..?”

The freezing wind was beating on his back but Hannibal didn’t care. The flurries in Will’s hair were like a crown of icy flowers. Light and shadow danced across his features. He looked as if he was made of moonlight.

“I should bandage your hand first. And get us a blanket,” Will started “There’s much to be said.“

_ “I only had a name, General Jack Crawford… “ _


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * this chapter is way longer than usual but Will's journey is just the same  
> * a trigger warning: this chapter contains animal death, please be careful

“...General Jack Crawford.”

Will paused. There was a momentary confusion, the sort of blank space that collapses in itself before a revelation. He realized he had been watching the doctor’s hands wrap the bottles of iodine, carbolic lotion and morphine one after the other but with no real focus on their movement.

The room was warm that morning, as Frederick Chilton always liked it. The slightest cold breeze and the doctor would immediately shut the large windows in his office to prevent it from seeping inside. An injury from before the days of war had left him with a bad leg and apart from the subsequent limp, the joints would frequently give him grief. As if to compensate, the canes he’d use to get around would always be handcrafted and decorated with an animal head cast in pure silver. 

His particularities with this item is what drew him from Ypres to the small village of Sint Elooi. The local craftsman was one who seemed to share in Chilton’s delight with these valuables and had a very good eye for detail. Of course, it didn’t hurt his business either.

Chilton felt the canes were giving him poise and elegance. But now the silver was unpolished and the wood scraped.

Sint Elooi wasn’t very far from the eastern delimitation of the salient and the ground was frequently quaking from the underground fighting. The 1915 mines had ripped open the earth like an old suit and the villagers swam through the dirt and sandy clay to escape the explosions. Frederick Chilton would have been one of them but his leg gave in not far from the entrance of his practice. A British infantryman found him clutching the silver head of a roaring lion. The division melted the silver to make slugs for the battle that summer.

The cane Chilton had now once featured the head of a proud doberman, its ears cradling Chilton’s fist as the fingers curled around the dog’s muzzle. It was the only one left, the one Chilton held at his chest as he barked at the infantrymen collecting the silver to stay away if they valued their lives. Its usage in time eroded the sharp edges to a sinuous featureless block, like a mold in clay that was never finished. Now it rested against the desk as Chilton packaged the supplies carefully in Will’s rucksack.

He was unshaven and looked weary; sleep, a luxury on the unstable ground. In addition, the men outside his practice, resting on blankets and drinking his whiskey suggested the doctor had a very long night.

Will’s pause in reaching for the rucksack seemed to set Chilton right off.

“Graham! Don’t you dare make this day any longer than it’s been.”

Will’s brows came together in a frown that darkened his entire expression.

“The telegram reached the British general?”

Chilton sighed and reached for the cane.

“Yes, Graham,” he sounded exasperated “In case you haven’t noticed, half of the goddamned Canadian tunnelling company is lying on its back in front of my house! The Brits will be coming soon so imagine the day I’m going to have! The least they could do is send the General my notices if he wants to keep this fucking excuse of a practice going!”

Will grabbed the rucksack by the straps and threw it on his back.

“Thank you, doctor,” he mumbled and headed for the door “Your help is greatly appreciated.”

“Yes, is it now.” Chilton scoffed and threw himself in an armchair, head in his hands.

Outside, Will went straight for the remnant of a tall picket fence where he had tied Firenze’s reins and gave his courser two short pats on the neck.

He felt cold now, the morning air turning his skin into goose pricks and even colder as he settled himself on Firenze’s back. The earth was silent that day apart from the Canadian tunnellers trotting with their combat boots from their camp to Chilton’s practice and exchanging rather cheerful pieces of conversation. Some turned to briefly scan Will from head to toe and he suddenly thought how grim he must look with his sheared hair, pale and rigid on horseback.

He kicked Firenze gently and went off in the opposite direction, where the road was gently sloping towards the plains that had become his home.

What he thought were the courser’s hooves batting against the dirt was in fact his own heart hammering in his chest. Will’s knuckles had turned white on the reins as Firenze followed the path to the Red Cross camp on rather sheer muscle memory. He felt his eyes sting as a frenzied sense of hope got stuck in his throat.

_ “He’s still there.” _

Firenze had gone into a wild gallop, crushing the grass and splashing the mud all over his lean, strong legs, thrilled in his animal brain to be running so freely through the plains, stretching far across towards the western Flemish border.

The camp was still far yet Will was already stepping inside the tent. With his mind’s eye, he saw himself hurrying to the back of the tent, where the curtains walled him in, and pulling them apart. Hannibal would be there in his bed and his expression would soften seeing Will flushed from the run. He would then kiss him and Will would make love to him there and then, craving his touch and warmth.

The sight of the red cross painted on the tattered tent churned his stomach and he felt bile in the back of his throat. He almost jumped off Firenze’s back as he approached the stables and momentarily lost balance, the weight of the rucksack pulling him to the ground.

Right as he regained his footing, he saw Beverly running towards him. Her expression was enough; Will felt the cold cut of the knife in his very bowels. He dropped the rucksack and ran past her.

Her frail  _ “Will…”  _ did nothing but punch the knife deeper and as he ran just as he had imagined, past the wounded, towards the sterile curtains, he knew he was gone.

The bed was austere. The mattress still retained the shape of his shoulders and the length of his thighs.

Will felt his knuckles crunch in his fists. The loss was almost palpable, a cold spot in an empty haunted house. As if through a curtain separating this world from the outside, Beverly’s voice whispered, _ “They left more than two hours ago, they drugged him, he didn’t want to go…” _

And Will let go of his fists.

“I’ll go sort out the rations.” he said “You see to Chilton’s supplies.”

Then he went silent.

He didn’t speak again throughout September.

***********************************************************

Given how the Red Cross camp was so small and clandestine, Will’s absence for hours on end was an issue Beverly struggled to find excuses for.

The terrain offered a wide view of the horizon yet no silhouette breached the line where the earth touched the sky. Beverly explained that perhaps Will had gone scouting on his own, far from the camp, perhaps even daring to go dangerously close to the eastern perimeter of Ypres. Perhaps it was an escape of sorts from his duties at the camp, although he was still caged by the circumstances.

He has never been a stable person, his nervousness when he had first joined the Red Cross visible and slightly unnerving. The nurses all knew about the coping mechanism that got him discharged and indeed, the story matched the person. In time, he seemed to have found a balance. When Beverly asked him about it, he smiled bitterly and simply said  _ ‘It becomes manageable. It always does.’ _

His extraordinary empathy offered hope and warmth to the refugees and wounded despite the shadow of death looming behind each one of them. It seemed Will had made a deal with Thanatos to let him function as long as they don’t touch each other.

Will breached the agreement when he touched Hannibal.

Beverly caught him as he was shearing off the last of his curls. He was standing in the pile of rejected, wiry hair, straight razor right above his right ear. He didn’t turn to look at her. He let his arm fall to the side and the silence drove Beverly away.

This morning was particularly troublesome. The sky was steel gray, clouds pregnant with the mid-October rains and Beverly was straining her eyes to gaze at the horizon. One hand gripping the door of the rations’ station, the other holding the shards of a morphine bottle. In her ears, she could still hear the crunch of the broken glass under her boot. 

It was very early still and Will was absent yet again so she couldn’t help herself but connect the dots. She was willing to jump on one of the horses and ride as far as the northern border if it meant she could bring him back. 

To her right, the other nurses were fixing their uniforms and brushing sleep out of their eyes in order to resume their duties. Beverly hid the shards behind her back when one of them waved a hand her way. She managed a smile and nodded back.

She was still hesitant. She felt she could trust Will, an indulgence she often chastised herself for.

Just as she was about to head for the makeshift stables, she saw him coming from the far left, across the plains. He was riding Firenze with a certain urgency, both man and animal wide-eyed, alert and going against the wind.

He went straight to the stables, where he hopped off and quickly patted Firenze on the neck. Beverly was at once at his side, crowding him and revealed the shards in her palm.

“Tell me this is nothing.” she demanded, a sliver of panic in her voice.

Will looked at the shards and for a split second, his expression registered the slightest twitch of muscle.

“It is.” he said and turned to Firenze, putting both palms on his neck. “I...I wanted to. But I didn’t. I smashed it.”

Beverly looked at him and retracted her hand.

“Will… you’ve barely spoken since... You’ve barely spoken. I am here for you. I am your friend. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Will was stroking Firenze’s mane with gentle fingers.

“Actually, yes. There is something I want to tell you.”

He looked at her and Beverly was overwhelmed by his sincerity.

“I want to say goodbye.”

**********************************************************************

He was silent but he had been listening.

In the first days of September, he had considered it all. Vaguely, yet all under the same question: could he survive separation? Could _they_ survive separation? Hannibal’s whispers and love declarations were just the surface manifestations of what their bodies already felt. Like electromagnetic waves, they each recepted the vibrations of each other. Broken reception, like the radio in the tent, turning smooth and melodious.

He knew he loved him when he saw him waiting in front of the stables. The light of the setting sun was beaming down his face, the shade of crimson turning his eyes almost black. That the words came soon after was just an addition to the certainty that had settled in his chest. 

He loved Hannibal and Hannibal loved him, that was certain. Should he dull the sensation like he did with the ether just three years ago? It seems pain has a single manifestation, regardless of its nature.

Will craved the vibrations and the warmth and the smell of Hannibal. Reaching more than the unity they had probably entailed Hannibal actually devouring his body.

So should he dull it and bury it? Should he remain at the broken frequency? Will thought of the hypocrisy of entertaining such a notion.

So he listened.

His trips to Chilton’s practice were more frequent now, under the excuse of lending another pair of hands to the British Division. Will would run around Sint Elooi to care for those strong enough not to need Chilton’s expertise. Hoisting buckets of water and carrying bandages for the tunnellers gave him access to their camp. He would offer immediate consultations, checking the men’s temperature and measuring their heart rate. He made a note of every name he had heard shouted around the camp and reinforced his certainties by exchanging pleasantries or being reverent of the tunnellers’ achievements and hard work. 

Soon, his name was finally uttered.

“... I have been having the worst bloody nightmares lately.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh. I feel like the tunnel’s gunna collapse all around me but it never does. Keeps me on edge all the time.”

“Yeah, I dunno if you should be sharing that with everyone.”

“C’mon mate, it’s not like I’m Maudsley material, you know.”

“Mate, I don’t wanna argue with Crawford if I can help it, you know what I’m saying?”

Will was serving canned beans and vegetable soup just a few paces away. His heart skipped a beat but his resolve allowed him to perform his role.

“Hey, Mullen! Haig!” he shouted “Are you okay over there?”

The tunnellers looked back at Will and shook their heads.

“Nah mate, the soup tastes like piss water.”

Mullen and Haig burst into ridiculous laughter and Will grinned.

“And I was just thinking I could offer you seconds.”

Haig motioned with his spoon.

“‘S okay, mate.”

“You’re giving Mullen a hard time again, huh?” Will said, straining to keep his grin on.

“Nah.” Haig said and started stirring his soup “It’s just that we’re all having a bad time, innit? There’s no reason to start panicking all of a sudden and get your one way ticket to that place, you know?”

“That sounds more like a scary story for adults.”

Mullen shook his head.

“But it’s not though. Everyone knows Maudsley’s the loony bin. General Crawford has been sending some of the boys there, you know? Lads that just crack up, you know? You see them with their rifles in their hands, smiling like it’s bloody Christmas in the middle of the trench. They don’t care a German mine’s gonna blow their bloody head off ‘cause they’ve completely lost it, see. So Crawford sends their arses to Maudsley. I mean, what else are you gonna do? They’re dead weight.”

As Mullen and Haig continued arguing on all the implications in Mullen’s claims, Will fought hard to keep his hands steady and serve the rest of the food. He had a lead now but it was still a fraction of the information he needed.

He thought of Hannibal’s nightmares, of the flinches of his skin against his and took a deep breath.

_ “Please, Hannibal… live.” _

It was easier to ask Chilton. He needn’t play a role as the doctor was not interested in any sort of performance from him.

“Maudsley? Yes, it is a psychiatric institution in London. As far as I’m aware, no boogeyman’s doing any sort of ungodly experiments there.”

Chilton probably missed the point that it was the General who seemed to be the boogeyman.

So he listened.

By the middle of October, the British offensive had moved towards the Roeselare municipality in the north-east to cut off the supplies for the Germans via the railway lines. The successful capture of the junction emboldened them to plan the march towards Torhout and rip the control of the railway away from German hands. So far, the railway lines west of Roeselare were under complete British control. They now had a direct route to Dunkirk. The next train should be leaving soon for the docks to bring additional supplies to the Allied army at Roeselare to begin the offensive.

And then, Will stopped listening.

 

************************************************************

He had packed a few medical supplies and canned foods from the rationing station, enough to stave him off starvation in his journey and left the Red Cross uniform neatly folded on his bed.

He hadn’t told Beverly the entirety of his plan, especially omitting to reveal that he were to leave the camp that very night. He had shared the information he gathered from the British division, adding that he ought to properly join the Royal Medical Corps, a matter he’d like to discuss with General Crawford himself next time the division was to group with the Allies in Torhout. He apologized for keeping so much to himself and when Beverly embraced him, he felt genuine relief in her breath.

He closed his eyes and wished he could see her again as he quietly stepped past her bed and slipped outside the tent into the dead of night.

The air was cold and it smelled heavily of the rains that were to come, pouring down from the bloated black bellies of the clouds above. Will filled his lungs with their promises and checked the pockets of his tweed jacket again. On one side, the lighter he stole from Haig and on the other the map.

On one of his errands to the British camp in Sint Elooi, he had feigned a complete inability to understand the tactics of the British Allies in his home country. One of the soldiers offered to draw him a map, albeit a rudimentary one, on the back of an envelope. He had marked the salient and the distances from Ypres, Passchendaele and Roeselare. Far on the left, he marked Dunkirk and drew segmented lines to explain the tactical position of the railway system in West Flanders. Will listened carefully and made a mental note of the terrain while maintaining the expression of a man who had never seen such a complex thing in his entire life.

He was ready.

He slowly walked to the stables and unhinged the wooden plank that served as a door to Firenze’s corner. His courser was eager to see him and Will had to work quickly to take a hold of his reins, stroke his muzzle gently and guide him away from the tents quietly. Once at a safe distance, Will jumped on his back and kicked Firenze into a gallop across the plains and towards the western perimeter of Ypres.

The darkness was disorienting and the barren terrain offered Will no visual cue to guide himself after. He was starting to feel panic building up in his viscera until he came across first of the three rivers he had to cross to reach the Field Ambulance in Brandhoek. Brandhoek was dangerously close to the front lines in Ypres so it would be wiser to bypass the hamlet, brush the edges of Poperinge and head straight to Lo-Reninge beyond the Yser river.

Firenze seemed energized even after hours of riding while Will felt the onset of sores on the back of thighs. His nose was slightly running from the cold and not once he felt himself nodding off.

On the far left, the noises of thundering machines were vibrating in the dark, an ominous war apparatus making its presence known to all who had ears to hear. Will knew that was the British stronghold in Poperinge and General Crawford was beyond those walls. He had been plenty antagonized but Will found he felt nothing for the man. His aim was not in that direction but further on, towards the Yser.

He was trying to keep himself awake, the atmospheric pressure threatening to compress his brain and give him a migraine. The darkness felt endless and Firenze had long slowed down to a trot, visibly tired. Will stroked his forehead and praised him softly, then took out the lighter and checked the map again. He must have just gone past the eastern perimeter of Vleteren so the Yser river should not be too far away.

The migraine was slowly but surely sticking its claws into his cerebellum and Will was too busy to concentrate on the pain to hear them coming. 

It was Firenze who started braying and shaking Will off his back. Gripping the reins and with eyes as big as his sockets, through Firenze’s unsettled bucking, Will saw the glint of yellow jewels in the dark.

There were five of them, each more mangy than the other, some foaming at the mouth, crooked and black teeth sticking from their gums as they were cautiously approaching. The guttural groans betrayed their starvation and fierce determination to make the encounter a proper feast.

Firenze was throwing his front legs at them, braying still and twisting from one side to the other while Will was desperately trying to hold on. He was shouting commands and pulling at the reins, feeling his supplies slipping from the rucksack. Deciding to follow Firenze’s instincts, he kicked him in the hips and sent him to a gallop towards the direction of the river.

The pack followed suit immediately, barking of death and gnashing their teeth on Firenze’s tail. Their speed was remarkable, spurred on by the size of the prey and the exhilarating hunt. Will had to keep Firenze from running in the wrong direction but he was almost blind with pain now and he felt his hands slipping from the reins. He couldn’t see the river yet and the howls were twisting in his ears like the screams of banshees and then he flew.

Right before he hit the ground, the realized that Firenze had fallen to the side, a length of barb wire cutting through his knees.

The impact felt like it had dislocated his shoulder and the migraine bit a hole in his skull. Disoriented but energized from the furious adrenaline, he scrambled through the dirt, trying to get his bearings. His palms and heels sank into the clay ground and his writhing seemed to have dusted off an ashy smell straight into his nostrils.

He fought to gain control over his body again and when his vision cleared, a myriapod slithered across his hand from the empty eye socket staring at him in the dirt. Will shook his hand and glanced around him, panic now a cannonball in his diaphragm. Bones, skulls and objects of no value had been stirred in the burning pit by his thrashing. It was too dark to discern the complete horrors surrounding him and he was on the verge of throwing up his bubbling despair when one of the dogs attacked.

His ring finger and little finger were two knuckles deep inside the jaws of the animal when it bit. The pain shot up his arm like lightning. Will screamed at the sight of his fingers hanging by strings of flesh like elastic bands as the dog pulled and severed them completely. He could smell the copper in his blood as it ran down the dog’s muzzle, fresh, warm and tacky in his fur. His screams and tears held no meaning for the animal as he stood prone to attack again. When it did, Will was quick enough to kick him away but apart from a squeal, it only seemed to have infuriated the dog even more. 

The howls of the others were what distracted him. The crunches and wet noises over the soft breath of his courser over the ridge of the pit told Will that the feast had begun.

He struggled to get up on his feet, healthy hand cradling the mangled one, hurt, confused and high on panic when the drumming of steel on steel rang from the far left.

Heart thundering in his chest, he spun around and saw the giant earthworm rolling through the dark, puffing a curtain of smoke.

His rucksack was nowhere near in sight.

He glanced around one more time before he started running. He told himself that if he will not make in on the train, he will willingly offer himself to the dogs.

And he ran, breath hitching in his throat, tears blurring his vision, spittle coming down his lips. He felt his bowls threatening to burst out of his stomach and his boots cutting blisters in his heels but he ran as the train started to pass him by, heading for the bridge over Yser and towards Lo-Reninge.

He ran, bleeding, jaws clenched tight till his molars hurt and reached out for the steel handle on one of the train carts. He jumped and gripped the handle with both hands, smearing blood and screaming his pain. With all the strength he could muster, he slammed his shoulder in the sliding door and pushed with both legs until it cracked open. He swung himself inside and when he hit the floor, the pain alerted him his consciousness was close to fading.

He quickly patted his pockets and to his deep relief, the lighter was still there. He shook the right sleeve of the jacket off and clenched around the thick material.

With a trembling hand, he flicked open the lighter.

His vision turned white when the flame started cooking the bleeding ends of his missing fingers. He was vaguely aware of the intensity of his screams or if some of his teeth had cracked from the biting. It smelled of burnt pork and rubber.

Will let his arms fall around him and the lighter slid across the floor.

Drenched in sweat, tears and dirt, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Outside, it started raining.

****************************************************

There was a faint light coming from the crack in the train cart yet Will’s eyes hurt when he flicked them open. The migraine had subsided but the strain from the night before was worming inside his body still. He realized he was starving and there was nothing in the cart he could put to use. In fact, the cart was empty. The metal walls were shoddily put together and the dust floated all around with each swaying of the train on its rails.

Will dragged himself across the floor to look through the crack.

The train was nearing Dunkirk, the North Sea spreading far to the east, swallowing up the horizon from end to end. The spires of the buildings cut through the clouds here and there as the water snaked through the streets and boulevards. 

The train was beginning to slow down and Will thought it would be wiser to jump off now and find his way toward the port before anyone starts inspecting the carts.

He jumped into fields just outside the Coudekerque-Branche suburb and followed Canal des Moëres until he reached the Dunkirk Cemetery.

It was odd threading his way through so many people in so many years; glances thrown his way were many and rather unwelcoming. Dirty, the mangled hand hidden in his pocket, and emanating a crude smell, he most probably looked like a bum from the outskirts. He did make a point, however, to avoid the main roads and any military offices and stick to the byways as he traversed the canal and reached the center of Dunkirk. 

The port was stretching towards the horizon, beyond the Catholic church in the main square. Now, without his supplies and any sort of object that could be of value, a sure passage across the English Channel was lost to the wind. Nothing to trade or buy with. Entering the Grand Port with nothing to show for didn’t seem like a wise choice either. He would have to stick to this side of the port and look for a solution.

Massive ships and carriers were docked in the Grand Port, blocking the view of the Canal de Bourbourg and its derivation to the west. It was busy that morning, sailors and fishermen scuttling back and forth on the quays, hauling barrels and containers onto the puffing mechanical whales that were the cargo ships and tankers. Their routes were unknown to Will so risking to sneak into one was not worth the effort. London had to be a sure destination, with no more delays.

He could do nothing but wait.

Fortunately, the solution stumbled in front of his eyes.

He was hidden behind the trashcans of a bar in Quai des Angles, nodding off, when a man came out of the bar swinging and cursed loudly. Will immediately woke and set his sights on the man that was furiously battling gravity while heading towards a nearby quay.

The man was mumbling to himself, seemingly greatly affected by the game of dice that just took place inside the bar. In his struggle to position himself in accordance with the ground, he didn’t notice Will stalking behind. He kept patting at his jacket as he approached his fishing vessel, a rather small purse seiner. A few more steps and he would have gotten to it; a move that was put to a premature end as Will tackled the man and scrambled to get the key from his pocket. Disoriented and astonished at how exactly he landed face down on the ground, the fisherman began yelling and cursing at nothing in particular, flailing to get a grip on himself as Will jumped on the seiner and rushed to the cabin. Through the man’s screams of hellfire and revenge, Will jammed the key in and gained access to the board. 

His fishing trips with his father up and down the Scheldt during his childhood equipped him with enough knowledge to turn the tiller and raise anchor before the rightful owner managed to get on his feet, fall to his knees and drag himself to the edge of the quay. Faintly, he saw himself hammering away at a boat engine while his father was tying the lures by his side.

Will yelled back apologies as he steered the seiner into the bay and slipped into the English Channel at the light of dawn.

********************************************

The little compass in the captain’s cabin guided Will towards the northern bank of the Thames Estuary, where the breakers eroded the cliffs, exposing the shale. The shores were barren and the powerful breeze was sweeping the sand and pebbles and battering the ascending ridge towards the esplanade.

The sky was still dark so Will carefully maneuvered the seiner close to the beach, steering the little boat away from the drowned rocks. He then dropped anchor and jumped into the knee-deep freezing water.

The signs told him he was in Southend-on-Sea and the farthest possible from central London, where Maudsley Psychiatric Hospital was. His hand was pulsating and his very lungs hurt.

_ “Please, Hannibal...” _ he thought, eyes tightly closed  _ “live.” _

He slept in the park that night, trembling and famished.

The next morning, Will was ripped out of his sleep by the blaring of sirens. Scared and disoriented, he momentarily lost all sense of perception and stood still, straining to discover the source of the deafening sound. A score of people were hurrying in a particular direction and Will snapped out of his reverie to quickly follow. He realized blending in with these londoners was not a difficult task, as they mostly seemed to look exactly like he did.

They were all rushing towards the closest underground railway entrance, shouting about the potential air-raids, the fucking Germans and their groceries falling all over the place in the agitation.

Crowded on all sides, sweating, with his heart in his throat, Will waited in the underground station until the sirens died down and the military officials announced that an interception has been made by the estuary and that transport will be resumed shortly.

To Will’s deep relief, the underground had a stop at Vauxhall, which was a short way away from Camberwell, the exact location of the hospital.

In a matter of hours, Will was running along Denmark Hill, towards the classical Greek pedestals that framed the entrance to Maudsley. As soon as he passed through the double doors, his knees gave in and he found himself on all fours, shouting incoherently while several nurses rushed to his help. He pulled himself together enough to mumble that he was a relative from Belgium of a soldier treated there but that only earned him a DNS IV and a place on a couch in the waiting room.

It was there Will felt his resolve breaking apart for the first time since he left.

Maudsley did treat Lieutenant Lecter but his rapid progress reduced his convalescence period. He had been discharged for some time.

Nurse Reba in particular has had a special relationship with the lieutenant but still, the hospital did not hold full records of its patients, but military service and health background. Will said he understood but his subsequent refusal to respond to any other of the nurses’ questions ultimately led to nothing. Apart from his dehydration and slight malnourishment, he was healthy enough to leave the next day as there were actual patients who needed their full attention. The nurse made it clear it was not a simple advice.

It was Reba who came to him that night and gently shook his shoulder.

_ “He was a wonderful man,”  _ she whispered  _ “but very lonesome. I felt it when he touched me. He was there but he was still distant. Perhaps you are someone who understands. So I can only tell you this: the office in Whitehall was the main venue for recruitment. I would go there. Good luck, stranger.” _

Will left at the first light of dawn, ignoring the nurses questioning him yet again, went down Peckham Road, crossed the Vauxhall Bridge and headed towards Westminster Abbey. Past Big Ben and Downing Street, Will was faced with the Whitehall Recruitment Office and yet again, nothing to show for. Part of him thought that perhaps telling the truth was the only way he could earn even a sliver of information on Hannibal.

_ “Please… live” _

He stepped inside shivering and walked to the first officer he saw, behind a desk across the hall. He opened his mouth, intent on telling something, anything that would not send him flying out the door. The officer behind the desk was visibly growing tired of the mute staring down at him.

The last thing he thought of, digging through the dredge of painful memories, was his salvation. And it was indeed, the truth.

Private Graham served in the Belgian Army when Germany invaded the territory in 1914. His service was cut short due to a thorough medical examination that determined he was mentally unfit.

Will recited his grade, his regimen, where exactly he was stationed, the commanding officer, his mouth running with all the details he could possibly think of to get him verified by the officer. Even a simple telephone call could confirm it. All he asks is that he sees Lieutenant Lecter.

Hours later, the officer said yes.

Lecter had voluntarily registered with the Whitehall Office in 1914 even though he was not a native of the British Empire. The documents note that he had quite a wealth that he was willing to leave behind once the registration was completed. It was a simple coincidence that he had chosen Whitehall; he was then living in a country house in Epsom, having just moved from another residence of his in Prague. 

There was a bus headed to Epsom around Battersea Park.

Will spent the rest of the day begging for change. As soon as he collected enough, he rushed towards Battersea Park, the address scribbled by the officer on a piece of paper, and jumped on the first bus for Epsom.

He stifled his crying all the way to the front gates of Hannibal’s home and when the soldier opened the door, he couldn’t hold it in any longer.


	14. Chapter 14

They were surrounded by ghosts.

Linen sheets, now yellow and moth eaten, covered every piece of furniture, the rims fluttering in the drafty living room. The bare walls loomed and, in the darkness, seemed like they would go on forever, a corruption of the image of the heavenly stairs. 

Will felt he was in a graveyard with Hannibal as a soul trapped to serve the unrested. He hesitated to let go at first but entertaining the illusion would not be of help to either of them.

He grabbed for his tweed jacket and dressed himself quickly before he trotted towards the front door and closed it. The storm from the outside had laid a thin layer of fragile flurries on the floor and despite their frailty, Will felt they were completely capable of causing serious frostbite; there was no heat in the entire house.

He went back to Hannibal and kneeled next to him, hot still from their lovemaking and felt at the cut crested into his wrist. It was deep and unwavering but just a few inches long, nothing that a couple of stitches can’t fix. The issue was that he had to act quick, especially since Hannibal’s exertion caused the wound to break open the epiderma to the inside of his palm. He knew there had to be blood all around them, an occult summoning ritual sealed when their bodies connected.

By the look of things, however, it was probable Hannibal had nothing in his house that could help him properly dress the wound.

“In the pantry.” Hannibal whispered, struggling now to keep focused “Sewing kit.”

Will jumped up and ran towards the hallway. His foot landed in the slick blood spill that lined the way to the bathroom and almost slipped if he hadn’t grabbed onto the door frame. The faintest glint of the straight razor winked at him from the darkness. Will regained his balance and rushed towards the kitchen on the right, beyond a creaky dark green door.

Cupboard drawers ajar, burnt oil spots on the stove and cracked tiles on the kitchen island. However, Will didn’t fail to notice the craftsmanship of each piece, the ornate handles, the sturdiness of the wood pieces and the intricate Rococo designs on the tiles. Even in the darkness, Will felt he had stepped into a rift in time, Hannibal’s past emanating an atmosphere of a life of exquisite and timeless beauty. Regretfully, the situation demanded he couldn’t linger.

The pantry was rather spacious, only slightly narrowed in by the shelves and empty barrels rolled into one corner. A forgotten wine bottle, a broken spice rack with the said spices powdering the floor under his feet, tin cans, dented serving trays and piles of sawdust. Where could a sewing kit possibly be in this assortment?

Will’s hands went brushing through the chipped shelves and rusty metals, checking the contents of each until he came across a tin of Danish pastries. The tin clinked when he took it and to his relief, the sewing kit was inside.

He rushed back into the living room, placed the tin next to Hannibal and trotted to the closest armchair, where he ripped off a strip of its linen clothing. He then went back into the bathroom, careful not to smudge the blood and sawdust on his soles even more than it already was and run some water over the cloth. Down the tap came a rush of warm water and the contours of Hannibal’s intention took shape into his mind. He understood then the tremendous worth of his struggle to come to him. 

The separation would have killed them both.

After the cold, the hunger, the soreness, he was there. He was truly there. The coppery smell of blood, the smell of this own blood marking the muscles of his inner thighs, the smell of rust and dust and old, the smell of semen, the smell of frozen skin. Palpable, thick, organic. He almost burst into laughter. Relief.

Will ran back to Hannibal and kneeled next to him. He cleaned the blood away and Hannibal pressed the cloth against the wound as Will struggled to thread the needle in the creamy darkness. Simply by strong resolve, he managed to do so and feel around the edges of the wound.

Hannibal said nothing when the needle pierced his skin and dug into the open flesh. Apart from a slight change in his breathing, he stood silent as Will worked to sew the wound as best as he could under the circumstances. When he was done, he bit off the excess thread and felt around the stitches. It wasn’t his best work by any means but the bleeding had stopped. He stood up to rip another shred of the linen off the armchair and bandaged Hannibal’s wrist.

When he was done, his hand slipped into Hannibal’s and their fingers intertwined. Hannibal was still completely bare and when he pressed against him, Will thought he could count his ribs even through his thick jacket.

The jacket was discarded soon after, when Hannibal pushed it off Will’s back, his hands feeling the curve of his spine and grabbing the flesh of his cheeks. He was exploring, ascertaining, making sure every inch of Will was there in his arms. Although the burst of lust, love and repression of it all solidified the actuality of Will in his embrace, there was a longing still, the feeling of starvation never sated despite indulgent gorging.

_ “A shattered teacup,” _ the thought came unbidden to Hannibal  _ “coming back together.” _

He kissed along Will’s carotid, down to his collarbone and up again towards his shoulder. He gently nipped at the flesh only because he felt weakened from the blood loss and the recent surge of unhinged urgency to possess. Otherwise... his impulses were floating just below the surface.

“Will… my love…” he whispered against Will’s skin and felt the shivers in his body snaking down his limbs.

“Yes.” Will placed a kiss in his hair and another on his temple. Hannibal’s beard was pleasantly scratching against the crook of his neck.

“My dearest”

“Yes”

“My life”

“Yes”

“Beloved”

“Yes, yes”

Will burst into laughter and planted his fingers into Hannibal’s hair.

“We smell like piss and sweat but I’d stay here until you run out of words.” he rested his forehead against Hannibal’s “I’ve missed your voice. I’ve missed how you feel against me.”  he pulled at the strands that ran down Hannibal’s nape “I love you.”

Hannibal pulled Will into his lap and kissed his plexus, arms locked tight around his waist.

“I love you, Will.” he said against his skin “I could… “ he hesitated “I could consume you. I could eat you raw. I could drink you whole if it meant I would have you forever.”

Will didn’t speak and Hannibal’s ears were ringing with the unorthodoxy of his confession.

“Be sure to cook me well then,” he said and another laughter escaped his throat “I don’t like my meat rare.”

He brushed the hair from Hannibal’s eyes and cupped his jaws.

“You **will** have me forever. Or perhaps for another few hours if you decide to stay naked in this freezing cold.”

Hannibal smiled at Will’s inquisitive brow.

“I do not have any coal for the boiler in the basement.”

Will thought it over.

“At least the geyser is functional.” he said, shaking off the thought of the possible scene in the bathroom “Come.” 

He untangled himself from Hannibal’s body and pulled him up. He nudged Hannibal to put his arm around his neck while he grabbed Hannibal’s waist and brought their hips together.

“You can lean on me. I’ll be your crutch”

He was stronger now, despite the look of his body, he was stronger than he’s ever been in that makeshift bed at the Red Cross camp. Gripping on Will but with a sure step, swinging his hips and keeping a straight back. 

He was beautiful.

The apparent ubiquity of the blood on the floor could not be avoided as they stepped into the bathroom. Their feet drew red trails to the cast iron tub on the far wall, next to the geyser.

If Will didn’t know any better, he’d say the paw-shaped clawfoot was pure silver.

He let Hannibal sit on the edge of the tub as he bent and turned on the faucet. The rush of hot water was so enticing, Will needed a moment longer under the stream. He plugged the drain and his missing fingers danced with the phantom pain. The water crashed to the bottom of the tub like the breakers on Southend-on-Sea and Will swayed with their movement.

He straightened his shoulders and nuzzled back into the comfort of Hannibal’s arms.

“Must we stay in the darkness? I want to properly see you.”

“The parliament thinks it is wiser this way. The Defence of the Realm Act demands blackouts in case of Zeppelin sightings.” Hannibal kissed Will on the bridge of his nose. “Although, in a way, I fear the light coming back.”

“Do you doubt my being here?”

Hannibal stood silent and the ripples of the water bubbled in their ears. The geyser was releasing its own brand of mechanical shriek.

“I shouldn’t. I know that my various attempts to reconstruct you from my memories could not ever match you.”

Will kissed him tenderly then and took him by the hand.

“Do you remember our first time together?” he asked and guided Hannibal between his legs “I knew then that I was linked to you inextricably in a way I cannot explain.” A soft gasp escaped his throat when Hannibal started to stroke him gently “I’d say Death brought us together and I am selfish enough to say that only Death can tear us apart again.”

Will placed his hand over Hannibal’s, took it back and kissed it.

The tub was filled almost to the brim so Hannibal extended an arm to turn off the faucet. He then gently twisted around to slip inside the hot water and pulled Will to follow through the steam.

He settled against his chest, arms around Hannibal’s torso as Hannibal held him close, planting kisses in his hair.

Serenity. Comfort. Love.

Will moved to kiss Hannibal again and Hannibal welcomed him, opened up. He took, he bit, he chewed. Red water. Their skin red, their lips red and swollen.

Will craned his neck and Hannibal sucked on his carotid. Hannibal leaned back and Will grazed his teeth against his nipple.

Love. Lust. Desire.

_ “Never leave my sight” _ Hannibal whispered  _ “If I saw you everyday…” _

_ “You  _ **_will_ ** _ see me everyday. Everyday, always.” _

The water had gone cold long before the whispers of love stopped.

They continued upstairs, long into the night, when Hannibal guided Will into the master bedroom. Under the cover of the thick duvet and woolen blankets, their exhausted bodies rested in a suffocating embrace while their lips still talked of things that never were and things that were to come.

When they fell asleep, it was already morning.

When they woke up, they smiled and laughed and the whispers started again.


	15. Chapter 15

Then, the battle of Passchendaele ended.

That week in November, the powerful winds were the messengers of an early and cold winter. The south-east was constantly battered by the winds rolling from the Surrey hills and the town of Epsom had never seen such dry storms sweeping across the chalky slopes.

Will had gone downstairs to break apart a chair that he would surely regret dismantling, if he knew anything about Hannibal’s home. However, the wood was necessary to try and stoke a fire in the small fireplace in the master bedroom. The cold had become unbearable, even under the thick, woolen blankets and buying coal for the boiler in the basement was still a ways to go and an issue for later.

After struggling to kick the legs off and rip apart the upholstery, Will gathered the splintered wood and climbed back upstairs. The bed was empty and the water was running in the adjacent bathroom. Will went to look.

Hannibal was carefully gliding the straight razor across his cheek, leaning his hips against the sink for balance. The crutch was resting next to him.

“Do you need my help?”

“No, Will. I can do this.”

Will wanted to drop the wood and kiss Hannibal’s hands, his chest filling with pride. Instead, he went to the fireplace and tossed the scraps inside. Luckily, he had found a dozen matchboxes in a cupboard in Hannibal’s kitchen so the task was finished in less than a minute. The fire was almost enchanting in that gloomy atmosphere, so much so that Will was moved to reach inside and touch it. It was incredibly pleasant, the heat seeping through his tweed jacket and Hannibal’s sweater underneath. He sat there, hunched, rubbing his shoulders and breathing in the warmth until the muffled, drawn-out noise of Hannibal’s crutch against the carpet drew closer.

He was clean shaven and his long hair was now cut short, the edges split by the dull blade of the straight razor. A few strands were resting on his forehead, shining silver in the light of the fire. Will thought he looked regal, even in his old house robe, even as he wobbled a little moving forward, even as he was visibly thinner, even as he was missing half a goddamned leg.

He helped him sit down in front of the fireplace and remained kneeled at his side. Will rested his forehead against Hannibal’s as Hannibal’s hand moved to his nape and began stroking the skin there.

“This is nice.” he said and felt the pleased rumble in Hannibal’s throat.

The wind was whispering empty threats through the cracks in the house as the gloomy weather bore down on the countryside. They sat and listened to the crackle of the burning wood in silence. Will slid his maimed hand into Hannibal’s house robe to keep it warm against his chest and let his head fall on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal felt Will’s lashes brush against his jaw. The way their bodies interacted could never be touched by the mundane. Every little gesture felt like revelation, even after discovering each other again and again since Will’s arrival.

“Hannibal,” Will said against his throat “should we leave this place?”

“Is that something you would want?”

“I don’t know.” he said and shifted in his arms “I don’t know where I’d go. I… don’t know why I even asked you. I guess I just feel… free somehow. Like I could do anything.”

Hannibal pulled him closer and smiled in his hair.

“Would you like to live by the sea, Will?”

*************************************************************

That week, the telegram came.

General Crawford was to come to London in two days. The battle was won.

Will faced the unrelenting winds to go downtown and grab the newspaper from the stands by the clocktower. _London Gazette_ was boasting in capital letters about the resounding victory of the troops. The Germans were crushed and the British captured what was left of Passchendaele. The Canadian corps had offered tremendous support in destabilizing the German artillery on the frontlines, ultimately making the British commander declare victory. The northern side of the Ypres salient was still being bombarded by German machinery but the Passchendaele victory boosted the Allied confidence enough to declare all will be over in less than a month’s time.

Hannibal folded the newspaper into his lap. He scoffed.

“My medal.”

He turned to Will who was still eyeing the headlines.

“And… your home.”

“Maybe someday, I would want to see it again. Do you miss yours?”

Hannibal felt silent. He looked down where he was holding Will’s maimed hand.

“No.”

Exactly two days after the telegram came, two uniformed men from the Whitehall office knocked on the door. General Crawford was expecting Lieutenant Lecter to be ready for the ceremony in 24 hours. He was to be transported to Buckingham Palace where the heads of his regimen, including the general, will be in attendance. In his absence, Major Bloom was to oversee the final strategies to put the remaining Germans into the ground before winter settled in.

As for Crawford, he was extremely eager to hand out the awards after Passchendaele was won, riding the momentum to inspire the troops still on the Western Front to push hard against the enemy. He was very persuasive with the monarch in his logic and wording so that, in the end, the whole affair was rolling on fast forward.

24 hours later and Hannibal was standing on a podium with the Victoria Cross glinting on his chest. He eyed Will in the second row on the left, hair combed to the side, grinning and clapping with joy and while his face widened in a smile, he felt nothing. Glory and pride were empty concepts. The applause buzzed in his ears like the sputtering of a dying machine. Crawford stood tall, a stone guardian to his right, chest puffed out, decorations adorning his shoulders.

He presented Will as his personal carer before he feigned exhaustion and excused himself. He could not muster up his person suit to last enough in such a meaningless ceremony.

That night Will made love to him, deep and maddeningly slow, taking his time as he rocked into him, prolonging the pleasure and Hannibal moaned away his relief, hands clasped into Will’s above his head. _It was over, it was over, everything was over_ and Will was there in his arms, saying his name again and again and his weight over him was perfection. He came with his lover’s name on his lips and Will held him close as he dug his knees into the mattress one more time.

He was close to falling asleep when Will whispered in his shoulder:

“Who is Mischa?”

Hannibal tensed. Mischa, Mischa, Mischa, when did he stop thinking about her? He felt as if a sudden wave came battering the rocks of an barren beach. Will felt Hannibal’s very fibers twitching.

“You say her name in your sleep. And when I touch your chest it seems your heartbeat stops for a moment after.”

Hannibal couldn’t turn. He felt Will’s embrace tighten around his chest.

“She… was an innocent girl. She was not aware there was another world, a different world, beyond the estate. Her fate was a cruelty of entropic design.”

He paused. Will did not push. 

“The January Uprising stirred many bitter sentiments in the Commonwealth, seemingly forgotten since the war. The hatred was renewed and to some, it never went away.

Mischa was a child. Like any child at that age, she knew nothing of the ambitions of adults and the darkness that often comes with such ambitions. She was playing make believe just a little ways over the gentle hill, at the border of the estate. She had her children’s book with her.”

Hannibal closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

“Vagrants and nothing more. **_Nobodies_ **. She spoke to them and they didn’t catch her words but they understood one thing: she was a Lithuanian bastard. Why would these people still breed and resist the Russian Empire? Frankly, it was disgusting.”

Hannibal took a short breath and the voice that came out was detached and flat.

“They beat her to death. When I found her, her little chest was crushed. Her children’s book was lying upside down in a pool of blood.”

“Christ…” Will’s heart was beating fast against his skin “Hannibal… I shouldn’t have-”

“No, don’t apologize. I kept her with me all this time. My little sister, my Mischa having her life taken for abstractions beyond us. “

Hannibal raised from Will’s embrace and stood at the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

“I can never go back home. It’s long lost its meaning.”

He felt Will’s fingers tracing the back of his spine.

“Death has such great appeal. So… certain. Final. I always thought it only fitting I should have the same fate, at the hands of another.”

He turned around and gazed at Will who was sat now too.

“But death can wait. I loved you since I first saw you, Will. Now I cannot imagine ever trading you for it. Perhaps, if I ever see Mischa again, I will tell her everything about you.”

Will reached for Hannibal’s hands and pulled him into his arms again.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll tell her together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More info on the January Uprising for full picture of Mischa's death in this AU:  
> https://www.britannica.com/event/January-Insurrection


	16. Chapter 16

The gloom that had settled across the sky seemed to have preserved time like an insect in a jar. It was batting its little wings, wishing to move forward yet it tumbled in repetition.

That December, the cold frosted the windows early on but the wind was still, as if growing in silence with the tumult of the happenings in the east.

Hannibal felt a knot in his chest, gazing out of the kitchen window at the groves beyond the plains. A thin layer of ice had covered them, tracing the soft and wide contours of the Irish countryside. River Fergus was just beyond, flowing ceaselessly into the Atlantic.

A shadow was looming in the east, the same shadow that had brought death and chaos two decades ago. Dodgy politics, destructive ambitions and dreams of misplaced glory resonated across lands and echoed even into this isolated corner of the world, where Hannibal had built his home. Now, it felt like an unspoken threat were to descend like a thief in the middle of the night and crush him in that uncanny silence that was ringing in his ear.

When the kettle whistled, Hannibal wrapped a small towel around its handle and took it off the stove. Then, moving to the cupboard, he took out two tea cups and placed them on a serving tray. He carefully poured the steaming liquid into the teapot. He then placed it on the side of the serving tray and took it from the kitchen to the entrance hall, traversing the generous foyer. There, he placed the serving tray on a shelf under a ring of keys pinned to the wall and put on his pair of winter boots. He reached for his coat and put it on, flattening it against his body. He turned the knob on the door, opened it and took the tray with him out in the front garden.

The cold was biting at his lips and earlobes and the fine china clattered briefly with his steps as he walked toward the large shed that quickly became Will’s workshop as soon as the building was erected. The buzzing noise coming from the creak in the door was indicative of the radio that was churning out the news. Hannibal pushed it open with his shoulder and went in.

Will was hunched over his project, gliding the brush along the length of the neatly sanded wood. Little puffs of steam formed between his lips each time he breathed. Flecks of sawdust were resting in his beard.

_ “Following Adolf Hitler announcing his intention to unite Nazi Germany with Austria just this November, Czechoslovakia rushed to make sense of the military implications. It seems the road to Vienna is paved with disaster as the Communist focus rested with internal development than international affairs. Meanwhile-” _

Hannibal placed the tray on the working bench and silenced the radio the next moment.

“I’ve brought you hot tea.”

Will looked closely at the coat of laquer he had just painted on.

“Thank you. I am almost done here.”

He put the brush aside, straightened his back and groaned as he rotated his shoulders.

“Ah, my bones are as stiff as a board. Old age does that to you.”

He smiled and Hannibal revelled at the luminosity of his face. Crow’s feet crept from the corners of his eyes and deep smile lines accented his cheeks but otherwise, not much had changed over the years. His curls were tucked behind his ears and Hannibal could see his reddened ear lobes. Hannibal would say that the years have not been as generous with him but Will’s sincere naughty compliments were as amusing as arousing, even after all this time. Hannibal couldn’t help his adoration for the man who traversed the sea to find him again.

Will came to him and kissed him before he poured himself a cup and started blowing into it.

“What do you think? I repaired all the cracks and reinforced the strap at the back.”

Hannibal nodded.

“I never doubted your knack for carpentry.”

“Flatterer.” Will said and took a sip of the tea “You should have more mobility now.”

Hannibal went over and pulled a chair. He sat down and rolled up the right leg of his trouser.

The peg leg he has been using lately as Will repaired his usual one was the very same he had received as aid after he had gotten his Victoria Cross medal. A siff metal pole with a rubber end and a cup-like top in which his shattered knee rested uncomfortably. Admittedly, it did its job but it made the wearer feel more like a cripple than anything else. Will designed and sculpted Hannibal a wooden leg before they left Epsom for Clare, Ireland. The measurements and the attention to the natural movement of the ankle permitted Hannibal to lose very much of the limp and wobble in his walk. Textiles padded the inside and leather straps connected the foot and leg pieces. The knee rested on pads around the rim where a belt secures the piece around the leg. Will had worked patiently at it as he tried to adjust himself with his missing fingers.

As soon he strapped it on, Hannibal stood up and paced a little back and forth. His movement was natural and easy as he shifted from leg to leg.

“It’s perfect.”

He suddenly stood still and looked at Will. He had finished his tea and was gazing back, confused by Hannibal’s posture. As he opened his mouth to ask about it, Hannibal came close and kissed him tenderly, hands gripping at Will’s jaw. Will slipped his hands inside Hannibal’s coat and rested them on his hips. He let him express his pain and fear and uncertainty until Hannibal parted with his lips and pressed their foreheads together.

“I know,” Will said “I know. But I can’t take this upon me and neither should you. That is over and done with.”

Will moved his hands on Hannibal’s cheeks. His fingers grazed through the salt-and-pepper beard as he forced Hannibal to look into his eyes.

“We’ve had our fair share of death. That time is not for us anymore.”

“Will…” Hannibal trailed off “If someone were to take you from me again, I would rip their throat out with my teeth.”

Will grinned.

“I would love to see that.”

He kissed him again and smiled at the way Hannibal’s features relaxed.

“You know what we haven’t done in a while?”

Will reached toward the working bench and turned on the radio.

Cheeky piano keys and a gentle trumpet were forming a crackling jazzy tune. Will slipped his hand into Hannibal’s as he pulled him closer by his waist. They started swaying and stepping from one side to the other as a voice sweetly sang inside the workshop.

 

_ Living for you is easy living _

_ It’s easy to live, when you’re in love _

_ And I’m so in love _

_ There’s nothing in life but you _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RX7TA3ezjHc
> 
> Thank you for being with me through this story! <3


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